


Truth of The Heart

by CosmicOcelot



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illusions, Jealousy, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, emotionally constipated Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22447582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicOcelot/pseuds/CosmicOcelot
Summary: Maybe the worst part, Jaskier muses as he stares into his tankard, is that it’s all so horribly... cliché.The inconsequential companion – tossed aside the moment that the truly intended, cosmically wedded couple finally meet. Because what chance does he stand – what role could he ever play – that would permit Destiny to place him on the same stage – let alone in the same scene – as witchers and sorceresses?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 155
Kudos: 2929
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Medium Length Works to Read, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Showing up to this fifteen minutes late with this creation.  
> Thanks to M.M. for helping me Beta this.  
> Please mind the tags as you go.

Maybe the worst part, Jaskier muses as he stares into his tankard, is that it’s all so horribly... cliché.

The inconsequential companion – tossed aside the moment that the truly intended, cosmically wedded couple finally meet. Because what chance does he stand – what role could he ever play – that would permit Destiny to place him on the same stage – let alone in the same scene – as witchers and sorceresses?

Really, all things considered, he’s lucky to have made it out of the whole mess with everything more or less intact. His heart notwithstanding. His mistake was not cutting his losses while he was ahead, taking the coin from the various ballads Geralt’s adventures inspired and moving on to pursue his next inspiration. Instead, he’d gotten attached – made the mistake of thinking they were anything more to one another than a bard and a witcher. It’s actually rather fortunate Geralt finally decided to let his true feelings on the matter be known; it’s saved Jaskier at least another decade of trying to be… _something_ to him.

He tips back the last drops of his tankard, gesturing to the barkeep for another one before he’s even placed it back on the counter.

The barkeep ambles back over, cleaning another tankard with a rag as he walks, and Jaskier wonders if that’s a requirement for barkeepery – to be able to always constantly be drying a tankard with one hand as they go about their other duties. “Same again?”

Jaskier nods, and the barkeep smiles. “Man of few words or just a rough journey?”

“Sorry?” Jaskier asks, frowning and no doubt wrinkling his already past-youth face. Yet another reason why someone like Geralt would never look twice –

“Haven’t said much since you got here,” the barkeep takes his tankard, placing it below the counter to fill it up, “figured you were either one of those stoic, silent types, or it really took it out of you to get here.” He places the tankard, now filled to the brim again, in front of Jaskier. “We’re pretty far out of the way, don’t get many travelers.”

Jaskier glances around the bar for really the first time since he came in a few hours ago – it’s full, but in line with the barkeep’s words, most of the people – judging by their attire and general no-nonsense air – appear to be simple peasant farmers, with the occasional merchant or other professional sprinkled in. As a result, the atmosphere is generally pleasant, but it’s unlike any bar Jaskier’s been in before. It’s almost – muted – in a sense, as though somehow, they’re all in silent agreement not to let their various revelries get too rambunctious. Although, maybe he’s just stumbled into their midst on a rather rough day for all of them. 

“So,” The barkeep says, pulling Jaskier’s attention back to him, “where you headed to?”

Jaskier shrugs, taking a pull from his tankard. “Nowhere.”

Gods, he’s starting to sound like Geralt, grunting out one-word answers to every question. And the thought causes him to take a much deeper drink from the tankard.

“Nice lute you got there,” the barkeep points to the instrument sitting on the stool beside Jaskier, “Bard?”

Jaskier gives the barkeep a crooked grin. “Sometimes.”

“I see.” The barkeep looks thoughtful for a moment, before leaning on the counter. “Well, if there’s nowhere you’re rushing to get to, how do you feel about being the entertainment for the place? Been a long time since we’ve had any kind of musician pass through.”

Jaskier blinks, staring openly at the man. “You can’t be serious. I mean, you don’t even know if I’m any good.”

“My father once said the most sorrowful souls sing the sweetest songs,” the barkeep points a figure at Jaskier, “and you, my friend, look like you got a lot of sorrow in you.”

Jaskier finds himself huffing out a laugh. “That’s pretty good, mind if I use that?”

“Accept my offer, and you’re welcome to it,” The barkeep smiles back. “I’ll even throw in room and board.”

It’s a good offer – the best he’s had in a long time – and it offers the potential for a kind of peace that he needs right now. Just long enough to get back on his feet, to be able to stand the thought of accidentally crossing paths with Geralt in his travels. Of having to look at him – his piercing eyes, the softness of his face when he thinks no one else is looking, the way his hands comb through Roach’s mane ever so gently, the fierce protectiveness that springs to life within him even if the person in danger is as foreign to him as the intricacies of high society – and pretend that his heart isn’t trying to tear itself from his chest. To be able to stand there, unmoved, as his heart desperately beats out its wish against his ribcage, impervious to the logic of it all, to the simple fact that Geralt doesn’t –

“I accept.”

The barkeep breaks into an open grin. “Excellent. I’ll have one of the girls show you to your room.”

He gestures to one of the serving girls and Jaskier barely listens to their conversation, getting up and following her up to his room as if his body is merely a puppet – marionetted by someone else entirely. And as he lays in bed – neither the worst nor the best he’s ever been in – he’s almost surprised to find that he doesn’t regret the decision. And that, on the contrary, he feels something closer to… relief.

After all, what possible use could Destiny have for a place like this?

* * *

Roach is still there when he finally makes it down the mountain, and she lets out a slight neigh when he approaches, nuzzling him with her head gently.

“Hey, girl,” Jaskier runs a hand gently down her neck, “tell me, was it me you missed, or was it my treats?”

Roach neighs at him, pawing her front hoof on the ground impatiently.

“Alright, I got it, don’t worry,” he pulls his last sugar cube from his pocket and offers it to her, “sorry, it got a bit... squished.”

Roach snorts but proceeds to lick all of it from his hand anyway, so Jaskier considers that a success. She nuzzles him again after she’s finished, and a soft laugh slips past Jaskier’s lips even as his eyes fill with tears. “Haha, well, how about one more of Jaskier’s perfect horse grooming sessions for the road?”

He slips a hand into Roach’s saddle bag, pulling out the comb he’d convinced Geralt to splurge some of their coin on. Or rather, Geralt’s coin. Just like Roach is Geralt’s horse, and it’s Geralt’s words on the mountaintop that keep reverberating so loudly in his mind.

Roach nickers softly at him, and Jaskier comes back to himself, forcing a smile that no one can see and carefully bringing the brush through Roach’s mane.

“You know, Roach,” Jaskier says, gently teasing apart a knot, “it’s a funny old world. I mean, a man that I’ve known for years, tells me that all this time – while I’ve been happily skipping along thinking that the two of us are the best of friends – that I’ve brought him nothing but misery and misfortune; and what do I do? I brush down his horse.”

Roach snorts and Jaskier lets out another laugh. “I know – you’d think I had a screw loose somewhere or something. But then – that’s the type he likes, isn’t it? Powerful and strong and sexy and _insane_. So, if I _did_ have a screw loose then maybe he’d – ” His hand stills as he watches Roach’s mane turn into a brown blur – and he hates the way his voice fractures in his throat into glass shards cutting him up from the inside out.

Roach holds herself steady as he presses his face into her neck, hand holding the brush dropping to his side, as he tries to do something – anything – to stop his heart tearing itself from his chest.

* * *

He’s about halfway through his last song of the night when he feels them.

Eyes, staring at him, and the intensity of them is so familiar he nearly drops his lute - _nearly._ He is a professional after all. And because he’s a professional, he finishes with his usual flourishing bow, thanking his audience for the cheers and coin they toss his way, before he allows himself to meet those eyes. Except instead of the eyes of a wolf, like he’s expecting, the eyes that greet his are of an altogether more human kind. Instead of piercing yellow, they are a warm brown, set in the face of a rather handsome man. The man’s lips quirk upward in slight smirk as he watches Jaskier take him in, before gesturing for him to come sit with a careless motion of his hand.

Jaskier swallows, frowning slightly, but despite all that finds himself walking over to the man as if drawn by some sort of invisible thread – or maybe it’s not all that surprising; curiosity has always been his weakest, and most dangerous, trait after all.

He slides into the booth across from the man, waiting for him to speak and clearing his throat awkwardly when he doesn't. “So, from where I’m sitting I’m seeing two possibilities – you either enjoyed the performance so much that you wanted to drown me with your praises or you hated the performance and called me over to see how fast you could gut me with whatever sharp object you have hidden in your trousers.”

“Rather dangerous for you to come over here if that’s the case.” The man remarks, smirk only growing wider as he extends his hand toward Jaskier. “Filip Zmora.”

Jaskier hesitates for only a moment before accepting the hand and shaking it. “Jaskier.”

“Just Jaskier?” Filip asks, continuing to hold Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier smiles back, but it’s a nervous, flighty thing. “Nothing else that I respond to.”

“Well then,” Filip finally releases his hold, leaning back into his seat, “what brings you this far out, Jaskier?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Just looking for a little peace and quiet – fresh air – away from all the -” he waves his hand awkwardly, “- noise and stench of the cities – oh -” A tankard is placed in front of him by one of the serving girls, Millie “- I’m sorry I think you’ve got the wrong table, I didn’t order – ”

“I did,” Filip cuts him off, and Millie floats off to her other tables, leaving Jaskier to stare like some sort of fool with his mouth hanging open. “I thought you deserved a drink after the performance you gave us.”

Jaskier’s lips moves without really saying anything for a few seconds. “Well – I – thank you, that is most appreciated.”

“It’s no trouble.” Filip taps his fingers on his own tankard in a rather arrhythmic pattern. “I was hoping that it might make you more inclined to listen to my… proposal.”

Jaskier stops with his tankard halfway to his lips. “Proposal? What proposal – I – ”

“Will you be needing anything else, my Lord?”

Millie is back at their table, looking at Filip expectantly for an answer, and Jaskier is turning the words my Lord over in his head until the puzzle pieces click into place.

“You’re a noble?”

Filip offers Millie a slight grimace and waves her away, “No thank you, Millie,” before turning his attention back to Jaskier as she scampers away. “To answer your question, no, I’m not a noble. I’m more of – a mayor, I suppose. I organize things around here and keep supplies moving in and out. Almost more of a… trader, if you will.”

“You must be an exceptional trader,” Jaskier says dryly, “ _my Lord_.”

But despite the snark in his tone, Filip doesn’t threaten to strike Jaskier down where he stands or call for his guards to haul him away, he just chuckles under his breath. So already significantly different from any other person with power he’s ever encountered.

“I’d like to think so,” He smiles, aiming the full brightness and soft warmth of it at Jaskier. "In fact, if I were half as good a trader as you are a bard, I’d be thrilled.”

“Careful, my Lord,” Jaskier finds his lips quirking into a slight smile of his own – this one steadier and surer, “you almost sound like you’re trying to flatter me.”

“And if I am?” Filip’s voice is gentle, soft, the kind of soft that sneaks past your defences, worms its way around your heart and _squeezes._

Thankfully, he doesn’t wait for Jaskier to answer, continuing on. “I host gatherings for the, admittedly few, men and women of power and prestige in these parts – gatherings that would do better with the presence of an entertainer such as yourself. I am, of course, already aware of the arrangement that you have with Jan,” Filip nods towards the barkeep, “and you would be free to spend the nights that I am not hosting here playing for coin.”

Jaskier hesitates. “With all due respect, my Lord – ”

“Filip, please.”

“Filip,” Jaskier repeats, and the name feels weird on his tongue. Perhaps because he’s never had someone in silk this fine request that he use their first name, “it would depend upon the location of your residence, I don’t think I’d prefer to walk miles back to the inn in the dark – ”

“I’d be offering room and board as well, even when you aren’t playing – think of it as a retainer of sorts. All due respect to Jan, but the bed you’re currently staying in can’t be that comfortable.”

Jaskier’s back lets out a painful twang in agreement but he hesitates, a voice that sounds altogether too much like Geralt’s whispering that if something is too good to be true it likely –

“I accept.”

And gods, he really is a creature of spite, isn’t he?

Filip beams. “Excellent.”

He stands up, another serving girl rushing forward with a rather impressive fur coat and a walking stick that looks like it cost all the coin Jaskier has spent on clothes for the last five years, “I’ll send a carriage tomorrow to collect you and your belongings." He offers Jaskier one last nod and smile. “I look forward to working with you, Jaskier.”

“Right, yes, well,” Jaskier fumbles over his words, not quite believing what he’s just gotten himself into yet again, “and I as well, my L – Filip.”

Filip’s lips twitch slightly before he inclines his head in farewell and sweeps out of the bar – his long coat dragging on the floor behind him. 

Jaskier waits until the door of the inn closes behind him before tossing back his tankard, draining every last drop.

“Another?”

He nods, pressing the tankard into Millie’s hands, “Yeah, just, keep them coming.”

* * *

“Oh, no. No no no. There isn’t enough ale on the whole continent!”

“You seem to be doing your best with what you’ve got,” Yennefer remarks, sliding into the seat opposite his – her gorgeous gown of the day sticking out like a sore thumb amid the worn and tattered clothes of the tavern’s other patrons. “Attempting to best a record?”

Jaskier ignores her, gesturing to the serving girl for another round, only to be ignored himself. “Come on. You’d think they’d be more invested in taking one’s coin –”

“Perhaps the allure of yours has run its course,” Yennefer offers, but it lands more like a stinging indictment and Jaskier has had his fill of those lately thank you ever so much.

“Shouldn’t you be off smothering sycophants with your tits, or whatever it is you do in your spare time?” Jaskier snaps, attempting to drain the last few drops of his tankard for what must be at least the third time.

Yennefer smirks. “Now there’s an idea worth looking into – who knew you were such a wealth of inspiration?”

“That’s me – inspiring,” Jaskier mutters, raising his tankard to his lips for the fourth time before he catches himself and puts it back down.

He finally meets Yennefer’s eyes – sharp and aware and beautiful – and he knows his are anything but – red rimmed and weighed down with dark purple bags. “Why are you here?”

“Coincidence,” Yennefer shrugs. “Someone in town sells high quality lavender – I’m here to obtain it.”

“Huh.”

A serving girl finally replaces his tankard with a fresh one and silence falls between them as Jaskier tips at least a third of it back in one go – trying to stop himself from asking the one questions that he absolutely cannot –

“Have you heard from him? Geralt, I mean.”

Fucking gods.

Yennefer’s face twitches before turning to stone once more – only solidifying the vision of her in Jaskier’s mind as an imposing marble statue given life; cold and remote and powerful and timeless. “No. And I don’t care to.”

Jaskier winces at the sheer amount of venom in her tone. “You know, he only – ”

“I know,” Yennefer cuts him off sharply, eyes flashing, but in the silence that follows, Jaskier could swear he sees her soften slightly. “I know. But I won’t let anything – man, creature, or Destiny – maneuver me as though I were nothing but a puppet on a string.”

There’s a strength in her that Jaskier can’t help but admire, despite the bitter coil of resentment that still rises up within him at the sight of her. But to unleash that on her would be the same as doing what Geralt had to him on that mountaintop.

And yet.

“He loves you.”

It slips from his lips, a quiet, wretched thing, soaked in hurt and chewed up by the vicious green-eyed monster sitting in his chest. 

Yennefer meets his eyes, steady and unwavering. “It’s not real.”

“Seems real enough,” Jaskier mutters, throwing back more of his ale.

“That’s the thing about magic,” Yennefer says, “it’s glittering and shining and fantastical and you let yourself drown in it. And then one day you wake up and realize that none of it means anything – and you’re still as alone as you ever were.”

They sit there together for a moment, and then Jaskier raises his tankard in a toast to her. “You should think about being a bard,” He shrugs, “you know, if the whole ‘immortal sorceress’ thing ever gets old.”

The corners of Yennefer’s lips quirk upwards, disappearing from sight as Jaskier moves to toss the rest of his ale back. “Perhaps I will. And perhaps you should consider turning in for the night.”

Jaskier lowers the tankard back down to the table, retort half-ready on his tongue, only to find the the seat opposite his empty – Yennefer nowhere in sight. 

He pays his tab and takes her advice – convinced when he wakes the next morning with his head threatening to split in two that the whole thing had been nothing more than a dream.

* * *

“I think you may have brought me to the wrong quarters.”

When Filip had said room and board, Jaskier had been imagining a room in the servants’ area, a bit cold, drafty, damp – but quiet, with a mattress filled with something other than straw and rocks. A step up to be sure.

Instead, the attendant carries his luggage up into the main house, Jaskier trailing behind uncertainly and constantly pausing to gawk at the various ostentatious displays of wealth, before depositing him and his luggage in a room that could be used to house a king.

“Really, this is – this is just – ” Jaskier gestures wordlessly at the room, the personal fireplace, the bed that takes up half the room, “ – this can’t just be all for me.”

“This is where my Lord said to put you,” The attendant shrugs, straightening up and putting their hands behind their back. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Uh – yes – yes – I mean – ” Jaskier feels the farthest thing from a sophisticated bard, and much more like a bumbling simpleton, “ – thank you, for your help with the bags and everything, I – ”

“Of course, sir,” the attendant is already leaving, not bothering to waste time watching Jaskier trip over his words. “We all look forward to your performance this evening.”

“Right, well, yes – thank you – ” The doors close behind the attendant before Jaskier can embarrass himself with more babbling, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

He turns his attention back to the room, glancing at all the brash displays of wealth – a gold plated fireplace, chandelier hanging in the center of the room, a bed that looks like it could house a small family – four posters with heavy curtains held in place with silk ribbons – and sheets that look so soft Jaskier worries that he might sink into them and never get up. He’s so caught up in everything that he almost misses the clothes, folded perfectly, and placed on the chair next to the door. Perhaps something left behind by the former occupant, or occupants, of this room?

His fingers trace over the material – silk, and the good kind at that – and so soft that he yearns to know what it feels like against his own skin. It’s a pale blue vest, paired with a white shirt with puffed out sleeves that cinch at the wrist, cuffs held together with golden cuff links. The pants are made of the same white material as the shirt, with gold filigree trailing up like gilded ivy from the hems to his knees; and to complete the ensemble is a pair of gold slippers. It’s a magnificent outfit, and he struggles with the desire to wear it and need for caution so as not to overstep his bounds – before his fingers find something that feels altogether more like parchment than silk.There’s a small card, tucked into a hidden pocket in the vest, and when Jaskier finally manages to get it out and turn it over, the large black scrawl of his own name makes his heart falter in his chest.

_Jaskier  
For tonight  
\- Filip _

He clutches the card to his chest, feelings caught up in an indecipherable tangle within him.

Geralt had written him a note like this before.

It had been after a day of interviewing the town’s folk for their perspectives on yet another one of Geralt’s successive monster slayings, compiling notes and scrawling down the occasional line or bar that comes to him. He’d practically skipped back to the tavern that night, like some kind of fool, caught up in a childish joy and desire to show the fruits of his labour to Geralt – to get his thoughts on the lines he’s managed to write, the notes he can practically hear – to see if any of them will be able to draw a slight ‘hmm’ of approval from his reticent friend – to see if he can catch the brief moments of softness in his eyes when he thinks Jaskier isn’t paying him any attention – completely lost in his composing – unaware that the only thing Jaskier’s completely lost in is –

He scans the bar when he arrives, and when he doesn’t see Geralt skulking in one of the corners out of direct eyesight of the rest of the patrons, he heads up the stairs to the room – not bothering to knock before throwing the door open.

Only, it’s empty here too.

He glances around, even ducking down to glance under the bed, “Geralt?”

And when all that meets him is dust and bits of straw leaking from the mattress, he raises his head and finds the card on the bed.

_Jaskier  
Find another place for tonight_

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does – shouldn’t feel like a closed fist to his face, complete with ornate rings that dig in and cut raggedly – sure to scar – shouldn’t leave his head reeling as he stares at it – reading in-between the lines. After all, it’s nothing more than a stocking on the door, and the gods know that Geralt could use some sort of... release.

And yet, it does.

He puts his notes beside his lute and makes a quick exit, back down to the pub where he flashes a wide smile that he doesn’t feel, bats his eyelashes, lowers his voice and makes sultry remarks to anyone and everyone until someone finally reciprocates – pulling him out into the night and back to their place. But even as the two of them start to drown in the each other’s pleasure, a part of Jaskier’s mind is lost to something – to _someone_ else. He draws his hand through long hair and imagines how it would look against his fingers if it were a piercing white instead of black, traces his fingertips over flawless skin and wonders about how it would be to trace over a menagerie of scars – each one of them proof of life. And when he gets a glance at the blue eyes above him, sees how wide and dark they are – nearly swallowed whole by the pupils – he sees bright yellow eyes instead, watches them shudder closed, and the face goes slack as pleasure consumes them. Lying silently in bed after, listening to his companion snore softly beside him, he feels the phantom of strong arms wrapping around him – holding him close in a rare display of that well of gentleness that the witcher keeps buried deep within him.

Jaskier’s knees hit the floor of Filip’s room, card crumpled in his fist, and just like that night all those months ago, he presses his other fist to his mouth to muffle the sobs that threaten to tear apart his throat – but he can’t stop the tears, and with each blink, more fall down his face.

And his heart – ever the traitor – beats out the same truth against his ribcage that it has ever since the night he lay in the arms of a stranger and wished for someone far more familiar in their place. And yet, the knowledge of that truth is as useful now as it was standing on a mountaintop, feet frozen in place, just watching as Geralt tore apart everything he thought they had ever built together. That’s to say, not at all.

* * *

“Well, I think we can call that a success.”

Jaskier shoots Filip a crooked grin. “It’s not the longest performance I’ve ever given, but it’s certainly not the worst either.”

“Yes, well,” Filip takes a seat next to him at the kitchen table, “you’ll have to forgive them. People around here are used to more – subdued gatherings. Rest assured, they did nothing but sing your praises as they left.”

“Usually, as long as no one throws bread at me, I assume they liked it,” Jaskier winks at Filip, before starting slightly as one of the maids places a piping hot cup of... _something_ in front of him. “Sorry, what is this?”

“Lemon and honey water,” Filip answers instead, the maid darting away to no doubt accomplish some other task, “I thought that it might help to soothe your voice.”

Jaskier lets out a sigh of relief. “You, my friend, are some kind of mind reader.” He picks up the cup, feeling its heat warm his hands as he blows on it gently. “I try and make myself one of these an hour before and after every performance if I have the necessary supplies – which, more often than not I find myself sorely lacking.” He shakes his head, “I can’t tell you how jarring it is to go to bed a singing lark and wake up an old, wheezing cat.”

Filip chuckles. “I’m sure you exaggerate, but I’m glad to be of service; when did you first start your little tradition?”

“Well, ever since – ” Jaskier stops, trying to remember who it was that had first taught him how to preserve his voice in this way. He swears that there used to be a name attached to it, perhaps the feeling of soft hands gently pressing the cup into his own, much smaller ones – but now, there’s nothing. He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite remember; I must’ve picked it up from another bard when I was traveling.”

“Not to worry,” Filip waves it away easily, “the important thing is that your voice is well taken care of.”

Jaskier nods, but a part of him remains... disconcerted by the slip. He’s always had such an impeccable memory for things before now, but then again, perhaps the fatigue of the past few weeks –

“Are you alright?”

Jaskier turns back to Filip, meeting his concerned gaze with a carefully lax one. “Of course, just a little, worn out – it’s been a rather long few weeks.”

Filip regards him thoughtfully for a moment, before standing and walking over, pausing just before he might run into Jaskier – the closeness ensuring his next words are just for the two of them.

“I won’t force you to tell me all your secrets,” His hand rests on top of Jaskier’s – loosely, not pinning him down, so Jaskier could throw it off anytime he wished, “but if you ever need someone to talk to – ”

“I appreciate it.” Jaskier replies, drawing his hand back and standing up, clutching his drink in his other hand. “But for now, all I really want is to lie down and sleep for at least a day and a half – if you will excuse me, my Lord – ”

“Filip,” Filip reminds, but it’s soft, gentle, just like his hand had been and Jaskier –

“Filip, right, yes, see you tomorrow!”

Jaskier flees from it as though the hounds of hell themselves were at his heels.

* * *

When Jaskier finally manages to find Geralt, there’s a monster’s guts all over his armor and a young girl’s blood on his hands.

He practically buckles to his knees in relief at the sight of him, all the panic and fear that had forced his body to keep moving, keep searching, leaving him in one breath.

“Geralt,” he manages to keep himself upright long enough to drag himself over to the log that the Witcher is perched on. “Geralt... where the hell have you been? I must have dragged myself all over this godsforsaken forest at least four times. My legs haven’t had this much use since I had to flee a Prince Consort’s bedchambers with a whole host of guards chasing my arse – ”

He flops down on the log, breaking off his tirade to suck in another breath of air, trying to hide the way his hands shake as he pushes back his sweaty hair from his face. And that’s when he finally takes note of the way that Geralt is staring at his hands, coated in a deep red, and that panic comes searing back to life within him.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His hands reach out frantically, pressing over the armor and searching for any tear in it, desperate to find and stem the source of that red –

Geralt shakes him off, and Jaskier lets out a huff of annoyance. “Geralt – ”

“It’s not mine.”

Jaskier stops, taking in the look on Geralt’s face, jaw clenched so tight – as though if he can just grind his teeth to powder, he won’t have to admit to the guilt that weighs so heavily on his shoulders; to the pain and frustration practically bleeding from his eyes.

He swallows, trying to get rid of the thick feeling in his throat. “Whose – ?”

“Girl from the village.” Geralt still doesn’t look at him. “Urchin. Couldn’t have been more than twelve. Wanted to see what a Witcher fight looked like.”

Jaskier casts his eyes about at the ground that surrounds them, empty save for the twisting roots of trees and the occasional stone. “Is there anything left to – ”

“No.” Geralt lifts his hands slightly. “Just this.” 

They sit together in silence for a moment, Geralt still refusing to raise his eyes from his hands.

“Geralt – ”

“Don’t.” It’s soft, perhaps the quietest Jaskier has ever heard.

“It’s not your fault – ”

“What part of fuck off don’t you understand, bard?” Geralt snarls, and it reminds Jaskier of a wounded wolf – its fierceness fuelled by the depth of its own hurt.

“It appears I’m selectively deaf to certain phrases, that one included,” Jaskier replies, “I suppose I should make an appointment with an apothecary about that at some point – ”

“Why don’t you go now and leave me be.” Geralt snaps.

Jaskier doesn’t flinch from it, just holds himself still and there. “Because I’m choosing not to. Just like she _chose_ to follow you – ”

“Jaskier – ” It’s a warning.

“ – and you chose to try and save her.” Jaskier ignores it, like he ignores all other warnings when it comes to this man, “You aren’t responsible for this – ”

“And she is?” Geralt interrupts, finally raising his eyes from his hands to meet Jaskier’s, and there’s a fierce anger in them – hot enough to sear Jaskier’s flesh from his bones.

But he stares right back, keeping his voice even. “I didn’t say that.”

Geralt stares at him for a moment more, jaw clenching, before dropping his gaze back to his hands.

“She made a choice,” Jaskier moves closer, voice soft but firm, “she chose to follow after you, and then a monster attacked her. And then you chose to save her. There’s no blame there – it’d be like saying a butterfly flapping its wings one day is responsible for the great, raging tempest that follows the next. People make choices all the time, and all we can do is make our own – we make choice after choice after choice and no one knows how they’re going to play out – but that’s what it means to live.”

He reaches out with his hand, slowly, until his fingers are intertwined with Geralt’s, and he can feel the slight wet stickiness of the blood. But he doesn’t balk from it, and Geralt doesn’t attempt to tear himself away from his grip. “You did the best that you could.” Jaskier raises his eyes to meet Geralt’s again, “That’s all any of us – sorcerer, human, witcher – can ever do.”

Geralt looks at him for a long moment, and Jaskier returns the favor, squeezing his hand gently to remind him that this isn’t just some sort of cruel illusion – that he’s here with him, and that his words are just as real as the breath coming in and out of his lungs.

“Hmm.” Geralt turns back to the forest, but he keeps Jaskier’s hand in his.

They sit there for a long time, just listening to the sounds of the forest around them, and at some point, Jaskier must fall asleep – his fatigue finally catching up with him – because when he next opens his eyes he’s back in their room at the inn; tucked into bed.

And he knows even before he turns his head that Geralt’s things will no longer be there, Roach having long left the stables –

Except.

They are there. His things, that is.

Hmm.

That’s new.

* * *

“How fares The White Wolf of Rivia?”

Jaskier’s fingers twang against the lute – letting out a truly harsh and discordant sound that makes everyone wince – himself included.

“I’m, sorry, my Lord?”

“Geralt, the Witcher,” The man repeats, a minor noble of a house at least three times removed from this Kingdom’s court, “you _are_ the bard who chronicles his tales, are you not?”

“Ah, _of course_ ,” a noblewoman exclaims, “I knew I’d heard your name before – so _you_ are the infamous Jaskier.”

Suddenly, everyone’s eyes are fixed solely on Jaskier, and despite the elaborate outfit he’s wearing – a high collared shirt of deep purple, pants with a purple and black diamond pattern, brown ankle boots with amber detailing, completed with a purple hat with a black feather fastened in place with an amber jewel – he feels naked.

“Tell us, bard,” another calls, clearly far past their first cups of wine, “how much coin did the witcher give you to make him so famous?”

Jaskier lets out a slight laugh, “Ah, well, he paid not so much in coin as he did in adventures. The only gold he ever gave me was in a pendant he found on a monster – I had to give it quite the scrubbing to get all the, um, blood and everything else off of it –”

“When can we look forward to a new ballad?” This is echoed by murmurs of agreement from the rest of the table, a general sense of impatience charging the air.

Jaskier forces a smile to his lips, trying to ignore the feeling of Filip’s eyes resting heavily on the side of his face. “Ah, not for a while, I’m afraid. The, uh, White Wolf, and I have gone our separate ways for the time being, as it were. But, knowing the man, I’m sure he’s faring as well as he ever does.”

“Not exactly a man though, is he?” The first nobleman chortles, tearing off a mouthful of meat, grease dripping down his chin. “What with all those mutations – especially those eyes of his.”

“Why do you think they call him the White _Wolf_?”

The table erupts into guffaws as they laugh at their paltry joke – as if they’re the only ones who have the brain power to finally put the pieces together – all except Filip, whose eyes Jaskier can still feel on him.

“I’d heard he was heading for Cintra,” A noblewoman, decked out head to toe in shining jewels, offers.

The first man snorts. “Good luck to him, if the cold doesn’t get him, then Nilfgaard’s armies certainly will.”

“Perhaps a more cheerful line of conversation is in order,” Filip suggests, his tone casual and light, but somehow still conveying the weight of a command, “after all, what use is there in discussing a war that will barely affect us?”

The group acquiesces, moving on to more mundane topics that go in and out of Jaskier’s ears as he strums a pleasant background melody to their chatter – trying to ignore the way his heart clenches in his chest at the thought of Geralt running headfirst into Nilfgaard’s armies – heedless of the danger.

It’s ridiculous. He knows that Geralt can more than handle himself – and he’s made it crystal clear what he thinks of Jaskier’s continued involvement in his life.

And yet.

His hands long to wrap around the pendant hidden beneath his shirt, gold and amber resting against his chest. And all the while, his heart won’t stop beating that awful truth.

* * *

“We don’t need your kind 'round here.”

Jaskier focuses on stroking out the knots in Roach’s mane, murmuring softly to her and stroking her neck when the comb gets caught on a particularly nasty one. “Is that right... and what _kind_ is that exactly?”

“Vagrants that squat in our rooms and make it so we can’t take good coin from normal decent folk.” The man – some son or nephew or cousin of the owner of the inn they’re currently staying at while Geralt takes care of yet another monster that had emerged from the black abyss to feast on humanity’s hearts – spits at Jaskier’s feet, narrowly missing his boots. “A _witcher_ and his sidekick. It’s disgusting.”

“Sidekick?” Jaskier splutters indignantly. “Sir, I’ll have you know that the witcher and I are companions – compatriots – brothers-in-arms. I am no one’s sidekick – ”

“So why aren’t you out there making sure my brother” - _and ah that’s who he is then -_ “is getting his coin’s worth?”

Jaskier frowns at the man. “ _Geralt of Rivia_ doesn’t need any help to dispose of your measly little monster.” He puts the comb back in Roach’s saddlebag, giving her one last stroke and a sugar cube from one of his hidden pockets.

“Fancy name for a fucking mutant freak.” The man mutters, spitting again.

Jaskier pushes hard against Roach’s stable door, causing it to fly out and smack the man right in the gut.

The man doubles over, coughing, and Jaskier carefully brings the door back and closes it in place. “Terribly sorry about that – guess I don’t know my own strength.”

He pats Roach on the nose and heads back towards the tavern to wait for Geralt, only for a hand to reach out and snag his arm – hauling him back and holding him in place.

“Oi!” Jaskier attempts to shake off the man’s grip, already despairing about the stretch marks in the material that are sure to result from it, but to no avail.

“Now look here,” The man growls, but it has nothing on Geralt’s when Jaskier’s used the last of the soap, “my brother is letting you lot stay here for free. The least you can do is show a little gratitude.”

“He’s letting us stay here because a monster snatching up travellers on the road is rather bad for business,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “If anything, you ought to be grateful to me for convincing Geralt to stop here for the night. The man hasn’t had a bath in weeks. I swear, I think his skin just started to sort of – _absorb_ the dirt at some point. Maybe it’s a witcher thing – ”

“We don’t owe you anything.” As retorts go, it’s a rather low-brow one to fall back on, and Jaskier can’t help the snort that escapes him – and neither can Roach, it seems.

“Well, except for the coin you promised Geralt after he – what are you doing?”

The man has a knife, sharp and gleaming for all that it looks like it would be more at home in a kitchen, pointing at Jaskier. “I think it’s time someone taught you a little respect.”

Jaskier can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his throat at that, a nervous, rather high-pitched kind. “And let me guess, you think that someone should be you? Sorry, but I – ” He kicks out with his foot, hitting the man’s shin and causing his grip to loosen enough for Jaskier to tear out of it. He throws himself in the direction of the tavern doors but something slashes across his back – steel tearing through flesh and leaving an arc of fire in its wake that causes him to stumble – allowing hands to catch his shoulder and throw him backwards; the breath leaving his body as his back connects with the ground. He tries to force himself back to his feet, but the man is faster, pinning him down easily – and once again, Jaskier curses the gods for his lack of muscles.

There’s an unhinged gleam to the man’s eyes as he hovers over Jaskier, pressing the knife to his throat, his other hand gripping Jaskier’s jaw hard enough to bruise. “Not to worry, bard,” the knife moves from Jaskier’s throat to hover above his face, directly above his eyes, “you can still sing and strum a lute blind.”

Panic seizes him, just as intense as the whinny that Roach lets out – high pitched and loud and rattling around in his brain – but all he can do is stare, frozen in place, as the point of the knife moves ever closer –

And then, in a rush of air, it’s gone.

He blinks, body slowly thawing out as he sits up, head turning to the sound of scuffling to see Geralt pushing the man up against the wall, before drawing back and raising his sword to man’s throat.

“You’re alright?”

It’s more of a statement than a question, as if there’s no option for Jaskier to be anything other than alright.

Jaskier nods, shakily pulling himself to his feet, reaching out to soothe Roach. “Shh, girl, it’s alright – ”

“Witcher, sir,” the man blurts out, and Jaskier feels disgust rising up in him at how quickly his big-cocked façade dissolves like sugar into tea under Geralt’s gaze, “this is all just a simple misunderstanding, I assure you, I was never actually going to – ”

The man cuts himself off with a whimper when Geralt presses his sword closer.

“What happened.”

“As – as I was saying – ”

“Jaskier.”

On the surface, Geralt is the same right now as he ever is in these situations; eyes focused on the thing he considers the real threat, body held carefully in control and ready for anything as he gathers information and prepares to make his next move. But Jaskier can see way his hand clenches his sword’s hilt, the slight tremble of his body and the flare of his nostrils as he tries to hold the anger – burning, boiling him from the inside – in check. All that, and the snarl curling his lips tells Jaskier that they are all balanced on a very tenuous rope, mere threads away from snapping. 

“It’s like he said, Geralt,” Jaskier keeps his voice light, even, as he makes his way over to the two of them, “just a simple misunderstanding between strangers. Now, why don't we all go inside, have a drink, and move past all this unpleasantness – I hear good things about the ale here – ”

“What did he do,” Geralt's eyes still haven't left the man.

Jaskier sighs, trying to replace the tension coiling through him with exasperation. “Really, Geralt, it was just some silly thing – what does it matter – ”

“It matters,” Geralt snaps, control slipping, and man underneath his blade flinches, but Jaskier doesn’t.

“Geralt – ”

“It matters,” Geralt finally meets his eyes. “I kill monsters, Jaskier.”

Jaskier doesn’t look away. “But _I_ don’t sign death warrants.”

There’s blood running down the man’s neck from the press of Geralt’s blade, and what Jaskier’s fairly certain is piss running down his legs; the acrid smell makes his nose wrinkle instinctively.

“If you do this,” Jaskier takes a step forward, “I’ll carry him around with me until my last breath.” He places a hand on Geralt’s arm, voice barely above a murmur, just for the two of them. “ _Please_. Don’t do that to me.”

Geralt doesn’t move, and for a moment, Jaskier thinks he might just plunge his blade into the man’s heart regardless, but then he pulls back and finally sheaths his blade.

“Can you ride?”

Jaskier nods, letting his hand fall back to his side, Geralt brushing past him without another glance at the man – so only Jaskier sees him collapse into a puddle of his own mess, shaking and shivering and as white as a plague victim.

Geralt takes Roach out of her stall with quick, efficient movements, helping Jaskier onto the horse before clambering on behind him – all in complete silence. They ride out, and Jaskier doesn’t bother looking back to see what became of the man, doing his damndest to let the night air blow away the memory, focusing instead on the warmth of Geralt surrounding him – protecting him from the cold. From everything. 

* * *

“You’re leaving?”

Jaskier throws his clothes in his travel bag, barely pausing to glance up at Filip before returning to his task. “I have to – for all we know, Geralt might be about to run headfirst into a trap and I can’t just let him – ”

“Why?” Filip moves into the room, coming to stand next to Jaskier. “What ties you to the White Wolf other than a few tavern ballads?”

Jaskier focuses on searching for his last doublet, ignoring the way the words are so painfully similar to the same ones that have been occupying his mind these past few months. “We’re friends – and just because he seems to have conveniently forgotten that fact doesn’t mean I’m about to leave him at the mercy of Nilfgaard – ”

“What advantage could _you_ possibly give him that he doesn’t already possess?”

It stings, like a slap against already red-raw skin, but Jaskier still doesn’t stop. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“He told you to leave him, Jaskier,” Filip’s hand catches his, “he doesn’t want your help, or your company, don’t you see?”

“Well he’s just going to have to get over that, isn’t he – ” Jaskier finally stops, staring at Filip, brows furrowing. “Hang on – how do you – how do you know that?”

“You told me,” Filip still hasn't let go of his hand, “and besides, that isn’t the point. The _point_ , is that Geralt – ”

“No, I didn’t.” Jaskier hasn’t as much as uttered Geralt’s name since their goodbye on the mountaintop – it still feels too much like broken glass in his mouth.

He tries to tear his hand from Filip’s grip, but he can’t break away from it – with each attempt to pull away comes an answering wave of fatigue, and the harder he pulls, the more tired he feels – as though the grip is sucking away his very essence.

“Let go!” Jaskier shouts, anger flaring through him, but it feels like even that is being pulled away from him – slipping through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. “What the fuck are you?!”

Filip’s other hand curls around Jaskier’s face gently, “A friend.”

“A friend would let go when I ask.” Jaskier tries to give another tug, but his body won’t respond.

“Like you let go of Geralt when he asked?” Filip traces a finger down Jaskier’s cheek, and his brown eyes have been swallowed whole by a cloudy white, “I’ll admit, when I first saw you at the tavern, I didn’t think much of you – but then I felt it.”

He pulls Jaskier closer, smelling the crook of his neck, and Jaskier tries to fight back but his mind is going just as cloudy as those eyes and he – he can’t quiet remember why he wanted to fight in the first place. “Such sweet sorrow leaking from your soul – and from a well so deep – I can make it all go away.” His fingers stroke through Jaskier’s hair, and they feel so... gentle, and his very being _aches_ with the need for it – to be treated as though – as though he means something to someone. “All those memories of him, I can see how much they hurt you, can _taste it_ – wouldn’t you like it all to just go away? Wouldn’t you like to be free of it all?”

And he –  
  
“No.”

He shoves back against Filip – or whatever this creature is – knocking him off balance and giving him a chance to run for the door –

Only

His feet won’t move.

A hand curls around his neck loosely, hot breath in the form of a sigh next to his ear, “I know how much you hurt – why won’t you let me take it from you?”

And it’s so hard to fight, the fog dragging him further and further away from himself, and he can’t even shake his head anymore. “I... can’t. Geralt – ”

“Why call out for someone who won’t answer?” The creature whispers, his other hand curling around Jaskier’s waist, “Someone that doesn’t _want_ to answer?”

He tries to speak, to scream, but no sound comes from his lips. And the room is spinning, running circles round his head, and fading in and out of focus. Jaskier feels as though he’s floating, a sense of disconnect from reality that persists even when the hands around him disappear.

"It's alright," the voice feels more like it's coming from inside his head, echoing off the walls of a suddenly terrifyingly empty space, "I've got you." 

And before Jaskier can force another word past his lips, white clouds swallow him whole from the inside out. 

* * *

“Leave me.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “I thought witchers were supposed to be smart. And yet, I’ve given you the same answer five times and you still haven’t gotten it through your thick skull – ”

“Jaskier – ” Geralt attempts to sit up, and the rest of his sentence dies in a strangled groan of pain.

“Oh for – would you just lie still?” Jaskier snaps, pushing Geralt back down into a reclining position, risking a glance up out of the hollow they’re hidden away in to make sure that they aren’t in any danger of being discovered. “You need rest.”

“You need to leave.” Geralt bites back.

Jaskier turns back to rifling through Geralt’s bag to locate his water skin and some form of food. A task made all the more difficult by the fact that, unlike Geralt, he cannot see in the dark. “You know, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say this whole circular argument was a worrying sign of some sort of head trauma. If you put this much energy into recovering from that poison, then perhaps you’d be back on your feet already.”

“Venom – ” Geralt mutters, before shaking himself back to anger “- it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I can’t protect you.”

“That’s funny, I don’t remember asking you to – aha!” Jaskier stares at his trophies triumphantly, turning back to Geralt and uncorking the water skin. “Now, hold still, you need to keep your strength up.”

Geralt glares up at him, his eyes like twin lanterns cutting through the dark, but allows Jaskier to tip the water into his mouth. Drinking it down with perhaps the most resentful swallow Jaskier has ever seen.

“There, was that so hard?” At Geralt’s continued glare, Jaskier rolls his eyes again, muttering “Big baby,” before putting the cork back in the water skin. He offers Geralt a few torn pieces of bread that taste just a little bit stale, the two of them chewing in silence for a few moments before – surprise of all surprises – Geralt breaks it.

“It’ll take at least six hours for my body to get rid of the venom.”

Jaskier nods, leaning against the dirt wall with a sigh. “Right, so – we’re in it for the long haul then.” He shoots Geralt a teasing grin. “I don’t suppose you happen to have a deck of cards in that bag of yours?”

“I’m sure the inn has several.”

“And these woods have _several_ poisonous – sorry – _venomous_ creatures, all of whom appear more than a little peckish, that I’d have to avoid in order to reach it.” Jaskier points out.

Geralt goes silent, as though he hadn’t considered this before, and Jaskier hides his smile in the crook of his elbow; tucking his knees in to try and conserve what little heat his body still holds.

Despite this, it doesn’t take long for the shivers to start – wracking his body even as he tries his best to keep still.

“You’re cold.”

Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “Yes, well, that tends to happen to us non-witcher folk.”

“It wouldn’t if you wore something other than silk.” Geralt replies, but there’s no real bite to his words anymore.

Jaskier places a hand over his chest in mock outrage. “And abandon my poignant and prescient sense of style? I’d rather freeze.”

“You’re about to.” Jaskier feels fingertips brush against his elbow. “Come here.”

Jaskier blinks. “Come where?”

“ _Here_.”

Geralt manages to wrap his hand around Jaskier’s arm, pulling him insistently until Jaskier moves forward, fumbling in the dark until they’re lying down, side by side with one another; Geralt’s arm wrapped around Jaskier and holding him close. And the heat radiating off of him makes Jaskier that much more aware of how cold he is, pressing closer to Geralt with a shiver.

“This is rather scandalous,” Jaskier says quietly, his breath landing in the crook of Geralt’s neck, “usually I have someone buy me a drink first, at least.”

Geralt shifts slightly, getting more comfortable, and tightens his grip on Jaskier; as though at any moment the bard might get up and bolt like some unruly stallion. “No, you don't. Besides, if you’d listened to me and left, then you’d already be halfway into somebody else’s bed by now.”

“Is that where I am, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, half teasing, half not. “In your bed?”

Geralt growls lowly, “Shut up, bard.” 

And for once, Jaskier does, closing his eyes and letting Geralt’s arms wrap around him like a gentle blanket; the two of them falling into an easy, companionable silence despite the danger lurking outside their little hollow.

“You should have left,” Geralt’s voice is quiet, barely a whisper, more... _lost_ than Jaskier has ever heard it, and accompanied by a thumb stroking Jaskier’s back, “forgotten me and ran.”

Jaskier gives a soft hum of pleasure at the feeling, pressing closer. “Don’t be silly, Geralt.”

He blames his fatigue for the bravery that allows him to run his fingers over the skin he can reach, down the side of Geralt’s face and neck, until he reaches Geralt’s chest, where his hand comes to rest; feeling the steady beat of the witcher’s heart beneath his palm. “I could never forget you.”

* * *

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to regale us with one more song?”

Jaskier laughs. “One more and I think my ride may leave without me.”

Jan shakes his head. “He never was the impatient sort until you wandered into town, bard.”

“I think I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.” Jaskier pockets the pouch Jan hands him. “Until next time, barkeep.”

“Try and put some of that coin toward some meat and ale now and again,” Jan calls after him, one hand busy drying yet another tankard. “You’re practically skin and bones.”

Jaskier grins. “I have to maintain my trim figure somehow!”

He makes it to the door just as it begins to open, moving to the side to hold it for the two cloaked figures, one significantly shorter than the other, stepping through. He offers them both a smile he’s sure they can’t see before moving to go through the door –

“Jaskier?”

He stops, turning to see a pair of eyes that he’s never seen before – a bright, vivacious yellow – like those of a wolf.

And in his chest, his heart beats out a truth that he can no longer decipher.

“Sorry,” He offers the stranger a slight smile, “I’m afraid it’s a little too late to request a song – but I do frequent the tavern quite regularly, so if you’re staying in town for a while – ”

“Jaskier.”

He taps his fingers against the wood, feet shuffling impatiently in place. “That _is_ my name. Look, friend, do you and I have some unfinished business that I don’t know about? Understand, if it has to do with a lover, then whatever anyone’s told you is definitely untrue and completely slanderous and should be ignored at your earliest convenience – ”

“It’s me.”

Jaskier stares at the stranger, squinting his eyes as though that will somehow help him to see some miniscule detail that will give their identity away. “ _It’s me -_ what – what does that mean? Should I know you?”

“Jaskier,” there’s a growl to the stranger’s words, menacing and low, “don’t – ”

“I’m sorry, but as I said” - He can hear the clatter of a carriage pulling up behind him - “I really must be going – perhaps we can continue this discussion tomorrow?”

“Jaskier!”

He lets the door close on the yell, pulling himself into the carriage and flopping down onto the seat with a sigh.

“You took your time,” Filip remarks. “Did Jan convince you to treat them to another song?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No, I – I ran into someone who seems to think we know each other.”

“Hmm. They might be right,” Filip taps his fingers against his chin thoughtfully, “you’re still missing a few memories after that bump to the head, right?”

Jaskier groans, covering his eyes with his arm. “Please, don’t remind me – I still can’t believe anyone could be that clumsy.”

“Neither can I, and I actually remember it,” Filip teases. “You want me to turn the carriage around, host him for the night?”

“Mm. Maybe tomorrow,” Jaskier mutters, fatigue from the night finally catching up with him and leaving him a kind of bone-deep tired. “Right now, I want only one thing, and that’s to fall into bed and sleep in until at least noon.”

Filip chuckles, the sound vibrating his chest. “I think that can be arranged.”

Jaskier sighs, eyes slipping closed, and his body has already surrendered itself to sleep when Filip reaches over and steals away the memory of the stranger and his yellow eyes with the softest brush of his fingers against Jaskier's forehead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left a comment and kudos! You guys really inspired me to finish this. Hope you enjoy this last chapter :)  
> As always, mind the tags as you go.

It’s a mistake.

A grave one at that, and Geralt knows as much the second he turns his back to stare down the mountainside. Even before Jaskier’s footsteps move away.

And still, a part of him expects Jaskier to be standing there when he finally makes it back to Roach – brushing through her mane and whispering nonsense in her ear as they wait for Geralt. Half expects to see Jaskier’s eyes turn to face him, glimmering with mischief, as he asks what took him so long, makes empty threats that he and Roach were about to ride off without him.

So, given that he was partly expecting the _actual_ scenario that greets him – Roach eating grass alone, neither Jaskier nor his belongings anywhere in sight or scent – it shouldn't come as much of a surprise as it does.

Roach gives him a look as he approaches, running a hand down her neck gently.

“Yeah.” This close he can detect a faint hint of Jaskier’s scent, meaning he likely combed her down one last time before departing, as well as the bitter salt of tears, and he resists the urge to place his face against her neck – to breathe in as much as he can before it fades away. “I know.”

* * *

Jaskier flirts the same way that most people take in air – with every breath.

Geralt watches him flit about - usually from whatever corner is tucked farthest out of sight and most obscured by shadows – flashing smiles and sultry remarks. Moving on without complaint when the recipients of his remarks do not reciprocate. Sometimes, this whole song and dance ends with him swanning out on someone’s arm; with him sending Geralt a teasing wink and wave as he leaves. Other times, it ends with him slumping into whatever seat is opposite Geralt’s, sighing in resignation as he tips back whatever alcohol the current establishment they’re spending their coin – _Geralt’s_ coin – in offers.

Tonight, it’s the latter.

“How is it I have to practically bend over backwards to seduce someone into taking me to bed, when all you have to do is give them your scary face and they practically throw themselves in your lap?” Jaskier complains, slumping forward on the table slightly and shaking his head.

Geralt takes a sip of his own drink. “Maybe if you didn’t try to talk their ear off, they’d be more inclined to take you home.”

“Not all of us were born monotonous and monosyllabic, Geralt,” Jaskier does a dramatic flourish with his hands, one that has Geralt rolling his eyes as he takes another sip, “some of us were granted the divine gift of syllabic synergy the likes of which only appear once in a lifetime. It would be a crime not to grace the ears of all who wander this plane of existence with that prowess before they head to their graves.”

“Once in ten lifetimes would be too often.” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier shoots him a beaming grin, not affected by his words in the slightest. “Make fun all you want, Geralt – we both know that without me to liven up your life, you’d be horrifically bored.”

“What I’d be,” Geralt arches an eyebrow at him, “is at peace. No need to chase your sorry arse around whenever you managed to get yourself into trouble. Again.”

Jaskier shakes his head in mock pity. “Such cruel words from such a cold heart. You ought to get that seen to, I hear it’s bad for the circulation.”

“Shut up, bard.”

Jaskier chuckles softly, hiding his grin behind the rim of his tankard.

Lately, there’s been much less of Jaskier going off in another’s arms and into their bed, and much more of him coming back to sit with Geralt like this – offering playful jibes and friendly teasing that Geralt will die before he admits to enjoying. Just like how he’ll die before he admits that he prefers it this way, with Jaskier’s attention focused solely on him as they talk into the late hours of the night or the early hours of the morning, or, after a long day of traveling or a particularly hard adventure, as they sit there silently, drinking and just existing beside one another for a time.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier peers closer at Geralt. “You’re being particularly broody this evening. More so than usual, I mean.”

Geralt grunts, taking another sip of ale. “Just hoping to get my meal before I die.”

“Ah,” a mischievous gleam lights up Jaskier’s eyes, “well, never fear, my dear witcher, your faithful friend Jaskier is here!”

Geralt regards him warily as the bard begins to dig through his traveling bag. He knows that gleam all too well, and it rarely brings anything good. “What have you done – ”

“Tada!” Jaskier pulls out a handkerchief, bundled carefully around something, and deposits on the table. When Geralt makes no move to unwrap it, Jaskier begins to gesture impatiently at it, “Well, go on, open it already.”

He sighs, leaning forward and removing the handkerchief with relatively little finesse, half expecting to be faced with some sort of useless trinket from a far-off land. But then the scent of fresh bread, sweetness and spice, reaches him and instead of a trinket he is greeted by a small, round bun, dusted with sugar and cinnamon.

“I saw you making eyes at these lovely little buns when we were walking through the market earlier,” Jaskier smiles at him, and that mischievous gleam in his eyes has been tempered by a kind of softness that makes Geralt’s chest tight – as though he can’t quite draw in breath. “Even tough, strong witchers needs a treat every now and then.”

It had barely been a glance at the stall, the smell reminding him of a bakery he stumbled upon after his first Selkimore hunt – and the horrified looks the owners had graced him with when he entered their store covered in guts and grabbed whatever was closest; tossing them coin on the way out. But despite their disgust and the rotten taste of the Selkimore’s insides still lingering on his tongue, the bread had been delicious.

He’d indulged in reminiscing about it only because he’d thought Jaskier had been distracted a few stalls away, lost in silks and jewelry. The thought that he had been paying close enough attention to notice his brief stop is – not at all dissimilar to that warmth that spreads through him at Jaskier’s smile.

“Hmm.” Geralt picks up the bun, taking a cautious bite, and enjoying the flavours that burst over his tongue.

“And?” Jaskier prompts, grinning, “How is it? Give me a review, three words or less.”

“Sweet bread.”

Jaskier raises his tankard in a toast. “Absolutely profound, my friend – we’ll make a bard out of you yet.”

“Not on your life,” Geralt mutters, but the strength of it is weakened somewhat by the fact that is it muttered through a mouthful of sweet bread.

“I’d happily surrender the rest of my years just to hear you recite one verse of original lyricism,” Jaskier replies, “but until then, I’m sure your adoring public will console themselves with hearing about your epic tales through mine.”

Geralt ignores him in favour of finishing the bread; refusing to allow the warm feeling that blooms throughout his chest at the sight of Jaskier’s fond smile to be transfigured into words.

Even as his “cold” heart beats them out uselessly against his ribcage.

* * *

“Do you know him?”

Geralt blinks, turning to where Ciri’s face is hidden underneath her cloak’s hood, a question in his eyes.

“The man, from the before,” Ciri takes a sip of her hot tea, blowing on it gently before raising it to her lips, “it seemed like you knew him. Or, thought you did.”

“Hmm.” Geralt gets up from the booth. “Keep your hood up, I won’t be long.”

He manages to catch an eye roll from Ciri as he departs, making his way over to the tavern bar.

“What’ll it be, stranger?” The barkeep calls, setting down a tankard that he’s just finished drying.

Geralt places a few coins on the counter, “A room, two beds, for the next two nights,” before adding several more, gleaming in the dull light of the lanterns, “and everything you know about the bard.” 

“Goes by the name Jaskier, came here a few months ago now,” The barkeep replies, already sliding the coins into his pocket, “offered him a roof over his head in exchange for performing here. He still comes every now and again, but much less since his accident.”

“Accident?” Geralt presses, heartbeat picking up in his chest.

“Yeah, hit his head something fierce.” The barkeep shakes his head. “Luckily, Lord Zmora made sure that he was alright – even gave him a place to stay while he recovers.”

Geralt tries to unclench his jaws enough to form words. “Where does this, Lord Zmora live? In town?”

“Just a few miles outside of it.” The barkeep squints up at him, as though trying to peer past the darkness of his hood to get a good look at his features. “Say, what’s your interest in - ?”

Geralt departs, leaving the barkeep spluttering in his wake, and heads back over to Ciri. “Time for bed.”

She ignores him for the moment, her eyes casting about the tavern curiously.

“Ciri – ”

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” She asks, her eyes finding their way back to his, “It’s so full and there’s all these people but it all feels so – muffled. Like someone’s holding their hand over everyone’s mouths.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at her. “Or, everyone’s tired.”

“It’s not right,” Ciri insists, frowning at the rest of the patrons.

“It will be in the morning,” Geralt returns. “Now come on. To bed.”

Reluctantly, Ciri slides out of the booth, allowing Geralt to escort her up the stairs to the room. And despite what he told Ciri, as Geralt glances around the tavern for the last time, he feels a pull in his stomach – a sense of _not right_ that’s been growing steadily ever since he saw the utter lack of recognition in Jaskier’s eyes.

If it weren’t for that, he might have considered the possibility that Jaskier was faking the whole thing – but if he were, his true emotions would be much more obvious. There would be exaggerated, meaningfully distant words and actions that would only betray just how raw and fresh the wounds Geralt dealt to him still were.

And then there was his scent – as faded now in person as it had been all those months ago when Geralt forced himself not to chase after the remnants of it on Roach’s neck. As though that was all that remained of Jaskier now; no more than a rapidly fading revenant.

His thoughts keep him awake all through the night, staring at the ceiling and listening to Ciri’s even breaths as the darkness slowly gives way to the pale light of dawn.

* * *

Day has given way to night much the same way that his body threatens to give way beneath the repeated blows.

The cell is dark now, lit only by the flickering of sparsely placed lanterns, and the blood in Geralt’s mouth looks black when he spits it onto the stone floor.

Fingers seize his bruised jaw, drawing a barely suppressed grunt of pain from his lips, and once again he’s brought face to face with his torturer.

“Reconsider, witcher,” The man’s breath is putrid, with old meat stuck between his crooked teeth, “just agree to pick a few measly mushrooms and I won’t have to start using my blade.”

“Mushrooms surrounded by Archespores,” Geralt growls, “and poisonous enough to kill a man from touch alone.”

His torturer snorts. “A couple of monsters should be no trouble for a witcher.”

“Perhaps.” Geralt glares at him. “But I won’t help your marquis poison people.”

The fingers shove his jaw away, Geralt breathing in deep through his nose to fight the agony of it, and the man moves back to his tray of devices.

“You may reconsider that stance,” he picks up a knife with a jagged blade edge like teeth, turning back to Geralt with a familiar sadistic sneer, “in time.”

Geralt snarls back, more than a little satisfied when he sees the man flinch, and braces himself for the next round. But then the door to the cell rattles open and two guards push past the torturer and to Geralt, grabbing his arms and hauling him to his feet.

“What is this – ?!” The torturer protests, clearly upset that the chance to use his blade is slipping through his fingers.

One of the guards shrugs. “The marquis wants to see him."

And with that they take him back through the dungeons, traversing a winding path that makes him dizzy – though the blows to his head probably aren’t helping. The rough movements have him gritting his teeth, every jarring step setting his wounds aflame, until they are back in the marquis’ grand hall; where they throw him at the feet of the man’s throne.

“Ah, witcher,” The marquis’ voice is just as grating as it was before he had Geralt tortured for hours, “so nice of you to join us.”

Geralt growls into the floor, pushing himself up to look at whoever ‘us’ is – his only hint being the heady scent of rose, bergamot, and frankincense, and beneath that –

His yellow eyes meet a blue that he knows all too well.  
  
“Jaskier.”

“Your companion and I were just discussing the terms of your release.” The Marquis smirks down at Geralt through his nose. “Aren’t you lucky to have such a loyal friend?”

Geralt spits at the marquis’ feet in response and hears the guards behind him draw their blades – only to be waved off by the jewel covered cretin. “Now, now, let him be; it must be hard on that witcher pride to be outmatched so spectacularly.”

“My Lord,” Jaskier steps forward, eyes darting to Geralt briefly, “I’m sure the witcher would welcome a chance to retreat and lick his wounds – ”

“And he will have it. After all,” the Marquis reaches behind him, picking up a glass jar filled to the brim with mushrooms, “I can’t have people saying that the Luis, the Marquis de Mauvaise, is not a man of his word.”

Geralt’s glare snaps to Jaskier, a sharp anger, fed by the dry twigs of something alarmingly close to betrayal, flaring to life in his chest. “Jaskier, what have you done?!”

“What was asked of him,” Luis answers before Jaskier can utter a sound, waving his hands dismissively towards Geralt. “The witcher is free to go, let him pass.”

Geralt pushes himself to his feet, swallowing back his pain, until he is on eye level with Luis. “I can’t let you use those.”

“I don’t recall asking your permission.” Luis nods towards his guards and the two press forward, flanking him.

Geralt clenches his jaw and plants his feet more firmly.

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts forward, hands raised placatingly, “let’s listen to the very gracious, very powerful, marquis. Who is ever so kindly allowing us to walk out of here with all of our extremities intact – ”

“One moment,” Luis hand catches Jaskier’s elbow, holding him in place. “The witcher is free to go, but you, are not.”

Jaskier gapes at him, mouth opening and closing without sound, before letting out a nervous laugh. “Ah – haha – funny joke, my Lord – ”

“Do you hear me laughing?”

Panic takes hold of Jaskier, the scent thick in the air between them, and it pulls on something within Geralt – turning a resolve that had been hard iron to blazing steel.

“Let him go,” Geralt growls, taking a step forward.

Luis grins at him – an ugly thing, full of too much teeth to ever be friendly. “No. You see, witcher, while I can’t have people thinking I’m an oath breaker – I also can’t have them thinking I’m someone to be trifled with. Thus, you can leave, but your companion,” his hands tighten on Jaskier, hauling him closer, “stays. Besides, I’ll need someone to fetch more mushrooms when these,” he lifts the jar of mushrooms with his other hand, “run out.”

Geralt takes another step forward and feels the ends of the guards’ swords press into his shoulders. “I won’t ask again.”

“But _I_ will give the same answer.” Luis gestures towards his guards. “Escort the Witcher out, I’m afraid my new _companion_ and I -” he releases Jaskier’s arm only to grab hold of his hair instead, wrenching his head back at an angle that makes Jaskier’s hands clench, inhaling sharply through his nose “- need some time to get to know one another.”

Jaskier’s eyes catch his and if Geralt couldn’t smell his panic already he’d be able to tell from the way those blue orbs scream it – a wordless cry for help tangled up with a desperation that Geralt can’t quite decipher.

The guards reach for him, hands trying to wrap around his arms and subdue him –

But Geralt is faster.

He turns in a while of motion, the first guard only knowing his throat’s been slit when he feels the warm red spray from the identical opening Geralt makes in his compatriot’s. They hit the ground one after another as Geralt whirls back to face Jaskier and Luis, stalking forward and tearing the marquis away with a hand wrapped around his throat. The man barely has time to go white, rasping out words that Geralt keeps choked, before the blade used to dispatch his guards is in his chest. Glass shatters as the jar of mushrooms hits the ground, with the thud of the marquis’ body following shortly after. Geralt draws back with a ragged pant of breath, more from the strain of his injuries than the difficulty, turning to face Jaskier –

And then he frowns, glancing at the mushrooms strewn about amid shards of glass, and takes in several deep sniffs.  
  
He turns back to Jaskier. “These are the wrong mushrooms.”

Jaskier stares at him like he’s just grown another head – well, perhaps not. If such a thing ever occurred, Jaskier would be more likely to be morbidly fascinated than anything else. The look he gives him now is more akin to the look he imagines Jaskier would visit upon him if Geralt suddenly announced his desire to forsake the witcher life and become a bard.

“Of course, they’re the wrong mushrooms! For fuck’s sake, Geralt, I can barely walk in a straight line sometimes and you think I just, what, bashed a few plant monsters over the head with my lute, stuffed some highly poisonous mushrooms into a bath salts jar, and pranced on in here without a single scratch?”

And, really, when you put it like that –

“Hmm.” Geralt glances down at the scattered fungi, wiping the blade on his tattered shirt.

Jaskier sighs, bending over, hands braced on his knees, and taking a few deep breaths before gesturing vaguely at Geralt. “May I ask where you managed to procure a blade from?”

“Grabbed it from the torturer’s tray when they took me out.”

“Ever resourceful, aren’t you?” Jaskier asks dryly. “Still, just as well you were, I must confess I didn’t much fancy being that lunatic’s _companion_ – ”

“You shouldn’t have come,” Geralt ignores the hurt that flashes across Jaskier’s face at that, “it was reckless.”

“It was _necessary_ – I can’t tell you how worried Roach has been,” Jaskier shakes his head as he straightens up, crossing the floor to Geralt, “poor thing hasn’t wanted _any_ sugar cubes these past two days.”

“Stop spoiling my horse,” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier grins at him. “Oh, don’t be jealous, you’re still her favourite.”

“Hmm.” He holds out a clenched fist towards Jaskier. “Here.”

“What? What is it?” Jaskier’s brow furrows, but he holds his hand out underneath Geralt’s fist, eyes widening as Geralt proceeds to drop a piece of jewelry into his palm.

“It was around his neck,” Geralt tells him, pretending not to watch as Jaskier inspects the piece, a glimmering gold chain with an amber pendant. “Caught on my hand when I pulled back – figured it was the sort of thing a bard might wear.”

“ _Might_ being the operative word,” Jaskier mumbles, turning over the pendant in his hands. It’s finely crafted, even Geralt can see that, but –

“If you don’t want it – ”

“I didn’t say that.” Jaskier clutches it to his chest, and only once he’s made sure Geralt isn’t liable to reach forward and snatch it back from him does he tuck it carefully into a hidden pocket in his shirt.

Geralt grunts. “Can you walk?”

“Feels as though I should be the one asking you that.” Jaskier’s tone is dry, but his eyes betray the worry that he feels. “Are you alright?”

Geralt shrugs, starting to walk towards the door. “Nothing a warm bath and a bed won’t fix.”

“Good.” Jaskier falls into step beside him, “Good. Do try not to let this become a habit, will you? Next time I might just take Roach and leave you to your own devices.”

“She’d throw you before you could leave the stable.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, humour chasing his words. “Nothing for it then. Guess I’ll just have to stick by you, won’t I?”

“Hmm.” And if that doesn’t sound as abhorrent to Geralt as it once would, well, no one else has to know.

* * *

The door finally cracks open after his second round of knocks, just when Geralt was considering breaking it down instead, and a thin face with a sharp hooked nose peers out at him.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for work.” Geralt leans against the door, keeping it open. “Figured that whoever owns this place might have some for me.”

The face frowns. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe my Lord has any use for your services, Sir witcher. But I shall ask him when he returns – ”

Geralt pushes the door open, hard, causing the attendant to spring back from it – nearly tripping over themselves to get away. “I’ll wait and hear it from him myself.”

He’s already walking before the attendant can form a reply, rushing after him and babbling nonsense about how inappropriate it is for him to enter without the Lord’s permission. But it fades away to background noise as he stalks through the corridors following Jaskier’s scent – faded as it is – until he gets to another set of doors.

“Sir, I must insist that you – ”

He opens the door and finds himself pulled to a stop at the sight that greets him.  
  
Jaskier is reclining on the furniture, book in hand, and his body starts slightly at the sound of the door opening – as though he had just been about to fall asleep. He appears in dire need of sleep, the dark circles under his eyes a stark contrast to his otherwise pale, sickly so, pallor. And Geralt isn’t sure if his clothes are simply baggier, or if he’s lost weight, but judging by the slight gauntness of his face – he would bet good coin on the latter.  
  
“My deepest apologies for the intrusion – ”

“It’s fine,” Jaskier waves his apology away, gesturing to the book he’s holding, “bit of a dry read anyway.”

He places it on the couch and pushes himself to his feet, Geralt’s muscles tensing as he waits for Jaskier’s legs to give way any second.

Jaskier offers Geralt that same easy smile he had the first time they met, no regard for the dangerous stranger – this abhorrent mutant – standing before him. “Nice to meet you, are you a friend of Filip’s?”

“Filip?” Geralt repeats, all other words getting caught in a thick lump in his throat.

“He’s a witcher, looking for work,” the attendant sniffs. “I informed him that Lord Zmora had no use for his services, but he is determined to hear that from the lord himself.”

Jakier’s lips twitch in amusement. “Ah, well, I’m no lord, but I’d be more than happy to keep you company while you wait.”

“Sir – ”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Ronald,” Jaskier soothes, moving across the room and ushering the attendant from the room, “if our friend attempts anything unsavoury, I’ll be sure to scream loud enough to bring the house down.”

“All due respect, sir, I really do think – ”

“And I am so glad we respect each other – it’s the foundation of every great relationship,” Jaskier practically shoves the attendant – Ronald – from the room, “when Filip returns, just tell him we’re in the library.”

“Sir - !”

Jaskier closes the door, clicking the lock, and he stands there for a moment until Ronald’s footsteps can be heard walking away – at which point, he unlocks the door again and turns to face Geralt with a grin. “So, a witcher?” Even the way he walks over, that cocky little swagger, is so familiar and yet not that it makes something in Geralt’s chest clench. “I’ve always wanted to meet one; I mean – ” he shakes his head slightly, awe – bright and blinding – practically shining in his eyes as he takes Geralt in. “You must have _incredible_ tales to tell.”

“Nothing you haven’t heard before.” Geralt can’t bring himself to look away, and he’s only just now realizing how much he missed this. Missed seeing Jaskier’s eyes lit up so bright beside him, Geralt pretending to grudgingly allow his attention to be directed to whatever novel thing Jaskier has found in some street market stall or trader’s pocket. Missed refusing to give Jaskier the satisfaction of thinking he managed to pull a smile, however small, out of Geralt. 

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that – ” Jaskier begins.

“It’s true.”

Jaskier’s smile falters at Geralt’s tone, confusion replacing awe as his brows furrow. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry or anything, it’s just – ”

“We know each other.”

Jaskier blinks at him, before huffing out an incredulous laugh. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. Not your fault – I tend to do that from time to time - I thought you said that the two of us – ”

“Any tale I have to tell,” Geralt takes a step forward, as though closing the distance between them will somehow give his words more weight, will pull them back to each other once more, “you’ve heard several times over. Even written songs about some of them – ”

“Hang on, wait just a – ” Jaskier shakes his head, taking a step backwards and effectively stopping Geralt in his tracks “- you’re saying that you and I are – what? Muse and artist, traveling companions, friends? ”

Geralt risks another step forward. “They told me in town you had an accident – that you lost some of your memories – ”

“Yes, _some_ of my memories, not all, and even so – ” Jaskier lets out a laugh with a more than slightly hysterical edge to it “- perhaps, for a stranger, a part of me seems to believe that you’re awfully familiar. But I think I’d remember being friends with someone like you. No offence, but you don’t exactly seem easy to forget.”

Geralt finally drops his gaze. “I... may have given you reason to. The last time we spoke, I said some things. Things that I regret – ”

“What sort of things?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt lets out a deep breath, nostrils flaring as guilt wars with frustration and the ticking anxiety within him. He's very aware that the time they have together is limited and that this Lord Zmora may arrive at any moment. “Jaskier – ”

“I don’t even know your name,” Jaskier shakes his head, “I mean, here you are, claiming that the two of us apparently mean so much to one another and I don’t even know your name – ”

“Geralt.”

Jaskier stills, raising his eyes to meet Geralt’s, and something not unlike recognition passes behind them. “Geralt. That’s – that’s your name?”

“Of Rivia,” Geralt adds, and a part of him feels foolish for doing so. As though that will be the thing that brings Jaskier’s memories of the two of them flooding back while another part prays to any gods that will listen that it does just that.

And something dangerously close to hope flares to life in his chest when this time, it’s Jaskier who closes the distance between them; drawing closer with every slow, measured step. It’s an odd sight. He’s never seen Jaskier be so cautious before, even in situations where Geralt thought he ought to at least try.

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats, drawing the name over his tongue slowly, carefully, “Geralt of Rivia...”

He raises his hand, reaching for him, and it’s almost as though Geralt’s hands moves on its own, enveloping Jaskier’s hand within them. Anger – and it’s always been so much easier to be angry than to be anything else, hasn’t it – burning low and dark when he feels how cold Jaskier’s hand is. The bard has always run hot – seemingly the one thing that kept his overly fashion-conscious body functioning on nights when Geralt would much prefer he eschew style for warmth and well-being. Now, they remind him too much of a corpse’s hands – made frigid and rigid by death’s scythe.

Jaskier raises his other hand to Geralt’s face, thumb brushing across his cheek, and the tenderness of it threatens to tear him apart. With Geralt caught between wanting to shake off the touch before it can reach any deeper into him and never wanting it to end. 

“Who are you to me?” Jaskier whispers, barely louder than a breath, and Geralt wonders if he meant to say it out loud at all.

Geralt presses Jaskier’s hand to his chest, holding it in place with one of his own, a thousand answers to his question burning on the tip of his tongue. But try as he might, he can’t seem to get any of them past his lips.

Jaskier glances between their hands before returning his gaze to meet Geralt’s, and Geralt sees it, the moment that the fog slips away and Jaskier – _his_ Jaskier – shines through.

“Geralt?”

The name wavers and shatters in his throat, and an answering anguish wells up within Geralt, his other hand reaching forward to try and caress Jaskier’s face – 

The door bangs open, sending Jaskier stumbling backwards out of Geralt’s grip.

“Terribly sorry for the delay,” A man, in a sweeping cloak lined with fur and a cane that clearly serves no purpose other than to show off his immense wealth, swans into the room, “you have no idea the sheer amount of haggling involved in securing a steady yarn supply for the winter.”

“Filip,” Jaskier is past him before Geralt can even try to grab him, too overwhelmed by the sickly-sweet scent filling the room – cloying jasmine with sharp notes of citrus.

The man – Filip – Lord Zmora – puts his hand on Jaskier's shoulder. “Good afternoon, my friend.” He turns to Geralt next, offering a pleasant smile. “Geralt of Rivia, I presume? My attendant told me you were looking for work – oh, but where are our manners. Jaskier, let’s greet the witcher properly.”

Jaskier turns to face him again, and it’s as though the past few minutes didn’t happen – his eyes clouded and distant as he offers Geralt a polite, vacant smile that sets the witcher’s teeth on edge. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The words sound as though they’re being pulled from a sleep-talker, mumbled and discordant, and the pieces finally fall into place.

“You’re an incubus.”

Zmora chuckles, running a hand through Jaskier’s hair – not to seek or give any kind of comfort – just to prove to Geralt that he can. “Rather bold of you to say so, witcher, but I think I’ll take it as a compliment – ”

“Let him go.” The words are growled, low, and the look on Geralt’s face alone has killed far greater beasts before.

Zmora merely smirks, before gesturing to the couch. “Why don’t we all have a seat, and you and I can get to know one another?” Zmora rubs his thumb up and down the side of Jaskier’s neck. “Discuss terms and all that.”

“The terms,” Geralt growls, “are that you release him, and _maybe,_ if you’re lucky, I won’t slit your throat after.”

Zmora hums. “Rather austere, don’t you think?”

Geralt’s blade sings out of his sheath to point at Zmora’s neck, but Jaskier barely blinks, just smiles that same vacant smile and rests his weight on Zmora’s shoulder.

“Kill me,” Zmora says, the most casual Geralt’s ever seen anyone with a sword at their throat, “and Jaskier’s memories of you will die with me – and all you’ll be left with is a very confused and angry man who knows you only as the man that killed the one person who showed him any kindness. His only friend.”

“They aren’t real.” Geralt holds his sword steady, forcing down the reminder of Jaskier’s quiet voice on that damned mountaintop, totally unaware of the scent of his hurt spilling forth – hemorrhaging heartbreak that only Geralt can taste. “Whatever feelings you’ve forced on him will disappear the second I bring my blade across your throat.”

“Perhaps. Or, perhaps the shock of losing our... _connection_ will kill him too.”

“You’re killing him now,” Geralt snarls, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. “I won’t ask again.”

“No, you won’t,” Zmora agrees. “Jaskier? Time to go.”

Geralt brows furrow, turning his focus to Jaskier just in time to see the flash of silver before the thick scent of copper penetrates the air.

Jaskier stares back at him, staggers back two steps, and crumples to the ground with his hands wrapped around the hilt of the dagger embedded in his chest.

Dimly, Geralt is aware of a guttural yell, as through wrenched from somewhere deep inside some ancient creature, only aware that it comes from him when the pain registers from his throat tearing itself apart.

“Jaskier,” He rushes forward, putting pressure on the wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding, “Jaskier – !”

Jaskier’s mouth forms something without sound, blue eyes wide as he stares back at Geralt, chest leaking oceans of red, and no matter what he does it just won’t stop –

And then he’s gone.

“And here I thought Witchers were impervious to illusions,” Zmora sounds almost bored as Geralt’s hands hit the mahogany floor hard as the body beneath them disappears, “and emotions. It seems not all the tales they tell of your kind are true.”

Geralt is on his feet again in an instant, sword in hand as he swings viciously at where Zmora used to be. “Where is he?!”

“No longer here.” Zmora’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from all around him, and Geralt spins uselessly trying to locate its source. “Perhaps, he never was.”

It’s as though the very house begins to shed its skin, peeling back layer after layer of shining luxury until Geralt is standing in a decrepit, cobweb covered room, the scent of mold and wood rot thick in the air.

“Go back to your Destiny, Geralt of Rivia,” Zmora’s voice begins to fade, and Geralt desperately chases after it, heading back down the corridor until he reaches the front foyer, sees the grand staircase from before lying in ruins – broken splinters of wood mixed in with shattered glass from that grand chandelier.

Suddenly he’s aware of something in his clenched fist, and he opens it to see a golden chain with an amber pendant.

“Leave Jaskier to me.”

And then it’s gone – Zmora’s voice, Jaskier’s scent, even the house itself. Leaving Geralt standing in a circular meadow ringed on all sides by dark trees.

Completely and utterly alone.

* * *

He can do this alone.

Geralt’s lost track of how many times he’s told Jaskier as much – back from the quest, monster killed, coin in hand, walking up the stairs to their shared room. But, no matter how many times or how fierce he utters the words, they never seem to have any effect on the bard.

It’s as though he doesn’t realize that Geralt has been taking care of himself and his wounds alone for decades.

“Just because you have in the past, doesn’t mean you have to keep doing so.”

Geralt blinks, unaware he’d spoken that last part out loud.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry, your inside voice is still your inside voice,” Jaskier reassures him, bringing the cloth back up to his back to clean the last of his wounds, “I can just read all the things it’s saying right on that scary face of yours.”

“And here I thought you were illiterate.”

“Behold!” Jaskier makes a grand sweeping motion with his hands that Geralt catches out of his peripheral vision. “It speaks. _I_ thought you might have been hit with some sort of muteness curse. Not that anybody would really notice much of a difference, mind you – ”

“Jaskier - ”

“- but instead you just went with the good, old, dependable, sharp claws and pointy, pointy teeth trying their best to turn your insides into your outsides.” Jaskier rubs some salve into the wound on his upper shoulder – a particularly vicious claw mark. “Tell me something, why don’t witchers ever hunt in pairs? I mean, partners can be very powerful tools – tend to help make sure you don’t end up with holes in places you don’t want there to be holes – ”

“I don't need a partner.”

Geralt can practically feel Jaskier’s answering eye roll. “Right, of course, my mistake. After all, _Geralt of Rivia_ needs no one.”

For all the dryness of Jaskier’s remarks, there’s an undercurrent of worry there that Geralt can feel in the slight shake of his fingertips as they bandage the last wound.

“Losing faith in me, bard?” Jaskier’s fingers still. “Thinking of seeking out another Witcher to write tales about?”

It was meant to be a question in jest, something to lighten the mood and draw Jaskier out of his worry and back to his normal, endlessly cheery self. Instead, it hangs heavy in the air between them, and Geralt feels a strange mix of impatience and... something else, cold and heavy, coiling low in his gut as he waits for the answer.

Adding to his discomfort, his mind conjures up images of Jaskier traveling side by side with another witcher, singing quietly to himself as they walk, whispering inane things to their horse and sneaking it sugar cubes when he thinks the witcher can’t see him. He watches Jaskier’s fingertips trailing against their skin as he bandages their wounds and fills their bath with scented salts and rubs calming oil into their skin, gracing them with soft smiles when he’s tired, the soft puff of his breaths landing warm against their neck as the two curl up in one bed together to save much needed coin, eyes bleary as he presses closer to their warmth in the early morning chill –

Geralt finds the vivid nature of the images... disconcerting.

Jaskier lets out a deep breath that Geralt feels ghosting across the back of his shoulders. “You really are a fool, Geralt of Rivia.” He secures the bandage in place and draws back. “I’ll head down to the kitchen, see what I can rustle up for the two of us – ” He stops, abruptly, and it takes Geralt longer than it should to realize that it’s because his wrist is currently caught in Geralt’s hand.

“You...” This – this sensation of being set adrift at sea, caught in a rickety boat with a tempest growing ever closer, a solitary rope the only thing tethering him to the shore – it’s something he’s never experienced before. Geralt swallows, trying to force his throat to work, to say the words. “You didn’t answer.”

But the strangest thing is, Jaskier doesn’t look at him like he’s standing on the shore – he looks as though he’s right out there in that tempest with him – the rope tying the two of them to each other as they face the storm together. He kneels down, bringing his free hand to cup Geralt’s face and tilting it slightly towards the light. “You didn’t hit your head when you were kicking in that monster’s pointy, pointy, teeth, did you?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, but there’s something different to it than usual, as though rather than offering a warning to predators, he’s revealing himself as potential prey.

“Just checking.” Jaskier lets his hand drop from Geralt’s face but doesn’t try and increase the distance between them. “I mean, you can’t exactly blame me; normally you can’t make it more than five seconds without telling me to piss off.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, dropping his gaze to the floor. But he still doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s wrist.

Jaskier sighs again, but this time there’s a touch of humour to his exasperation. “If I’d have known showing an interest in your continued long life would make you this maudlin, I’d never have bothered. Hey,” he tries to catch Geralt’s eyes, eventually managing to do so despite Geralt’s best efforts, “I’ve no interest in finding another witcher. I find just the one keeps me plenty busy as is. And, let’s be honest, no witcher is going to have a better horse than Roach.”

It startles a slight chuckle out of Geralt. “Hmm.”

“Exactly. Now,” Jaskier pats his shoulder gently, his hand resting there, “do you think you can bear to be parted from me long enough so I can grab us some dinner?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, grunting, but his hand is slow to unwrap from Jaskier’s wrist, his fingertips lingering against the skin there before falling back to his side. And when Jaskier stands and finally departs from the room, Geralt spends most of the time that makes up his absence thinking about the warmth of Jaskier’s skin; an itch that won’t abate, just beneath the surface of Geralt’s skin, plaguing him until the bard’s return. 

* * *

He’d be lying if he said there was no doubt in his mind Yennefer would come. But when he comes down from the room, Ciri carefully tucked into bed, she’s sitting in a booth at the far-left side of the tavern – eyebrow raised expectantly at him. Geralt crosses the floor to her, feeling that low pull in his gut grow every step of the way, the djinn’s magic still tying them together. And judging by the way she draws herself up as he slides into the seat opposite her, she feels it too.

“You were right,” She tells him, down to business straight away, “it’s definitely an incubus. An old one at that. It’s managed to evolve from having to sustain itself on sexual energy to any kind of energy.” She nods towards the other occupants in the tavern. “It’s likely been feeding on the townsfolk for decades, if not centuries.”

“And its illusions?” Geralt asks.

Yennefer shrugs. “Likely a side effect of living as long as it has. Or rather, being well fed.” She takes a sip of her ale. “There’s several people missing from around town today – it probably fed as much as it could before you arrived at the house, hoping to scare you off.”

“It should have saved its strength,” Geralt snarls.

“If it had,” Yennefer eyes him sharply, “we would have no idea what we need to destroy it.”

She places a small wooden box and a drawstring bag in front of him. “In the box is a salve; spread it on your forehead before you leave, and you’ll be able to tell what’s real and what’s an illusion. The bag contains a powder, ensure at least some of it gets on Jaskier and his connection to the incubus will be shattered. At which point – ”

“I run it through with silver,” Geralt finishes, already standing.

“Make sure you kill it.” Yennefer’s eyes meet his, and there’s a fire burning in them that could set the whole continent ablaze. “None of this maim and let live and forget nonsense. You either slit its throat or tear out its heart.”

Geralt smirks at her. “Careful, Yen, you sound invested.”

“I am.” She turns back to her ale.

Geralt nods slightly, pausing only a moment more. “You’ll watch over Ciri?”

Yennefer nods, swallowing down a large gulp of ale; and Geralt would bet coin that that has more to do with a desire to avoid talking further than a desperate thirst.

He pockets the powder, keeping the wooden box in his hand and opening it after he steps out of the warm mildew of the tavern into the crisp night air. He spreads the contents of the box on his forehead and tries not to think about how Jaskier’s blood felt between his fingers. Instead he focuses on thoughts of seeing Jaskier’s knowing grin, the mischievous glint in his eyes, hearing him sing and play in front of adoring crowds, feeling the warmth of his body bleed through into Geralt as they ride together –

And the sound the incubus will make when Geralt runs his blade through its heart.

He starts his walk towards the manor – towards Jaskier – and his hand itches at his side; already desperate to wrap around the hilt of his blade.

* * *

Jaskier is silent.

He has been since they departed the tavern, and while Geralt usually spends their days together pleading for the man to shut up, the sudden lack of chatter is... unsettling.

The fire flickers steadily as Geralt dresses Jaskier’s wound, a long gash across his back; the sight of which makes something fierce burn in Geralt’s chest.

And then, finally, Jaskier speaks. “Are you sure you have enough light to –? ”

“I can see in the dark.”

“You can see in the – ? What am I saying, of course you can.” Jaskier shakes his head, wincing when the action pulls on his wound.

“Hold still,” Geralt snaps, but his hands are soft and careful as they work to finish bandaging Jaskier’s back.

Silence falls again for a moment, but Jaskier breaks it once more. “Did you manage to get your coin at least?”

“Yes.” He had just received it, grudgingly, from the owner of the inn, when his nose had picked up the sharp copper scent of what he’s come to know all too well as Jaskier’s blood.

He draws back, finished, inhaling sharply through his nostrils, and turns back to his pack, putting the supplies away.

Jaskier slowly turns to face him, holding the remains of his shirt in his hands, sighing slightly as he draws his fingers across the cut to the fabric. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to part with any of it? I could use something to replace this – ”

“You should have let me kill him.” He doesn’t mean for it to slip past his lips, but once it’s out he doesn’t attempt to try and claw it back either.

Jaskier snorts. “Over what? A torn shirt? Seems a tad bit overdramatic, don’t you think? Even for me – ”

“No, not over the fucking shirt,” Geralt snarls. He can still smell Jaskier’s blood, can see him lying prone on the ground, helpless as the monster hovers over him. Can see the lantern’s light glinting off the thing’s blade as it maneuvered it over Jaskier’s eyes, the monster more than ready to carve them from his face. And the thought of the aftermath, Jaskier groping around desperately, bloodied holes where oceans of blue used to be, crying out in pain and completely at the mercy of any who should stumble across him –

He clenches his fists so tightly that it’s a wonder his own blood doesn’t seep forth from crescent moon cuts in his palm.

“Well,” Jaskier shifts closer to him, so that their shoulders are resting against one another, “seemed a bit cruel to slit the throat of a man who’d just pissed himself. Besides, I started the whole thing, so in the end I was really only reaping what I’d sown – ”

“Started it?” Geralt’s brow furrows.

Jaskier makes a rather helpless gesture with his hands. “He... _might_ have made some comments that I took exception to and I _might_ have slammed the door of Roach’s stall into his gut as recompense. At which point, he _might_ have decided I needed to be taught a lesson with the help of his handy dandy kitchen blade – it’s all a blur, really.”

“Comments,” Geralt repeats, staring at Jaskier.

“Something about vagrants, and sidekicks, and rather uncouth words for the man saving their filthy little inn and livelihoods,” Jaskier’s tone turns bitter as he recalls the events, glaring at the fire as though it has personally offended him somehow.

Geralt blinks. “You picked a fight because he said something unkind about witchers?”

“Not witchers, _witcher_.” Jaskier turns his gaze from the fire to Geralt, “I’ve worked very hard these past few years to have the entire continent speaking your name with the reverence it deserves – you’ll have to forgive me for losing my head a little when someone refuses to get the message. I mean, the hand cramps from writing all those notes alone, not to mention all the hours composing said notes into something worthy of a witcher – ”

“Worth losing your eyes over?”

Jaskier grimaces. “Ah, well, yes – granted, he may have taken it a tad far there. A blow to the gut would have more than sufficed – ”

“Don’t do it again.”

Jaskier splutters beside him indignantly. “Awfully bold of you to presume you have any say over my actions, Geralt of Rivia – ”

“People will say what they will.” Geralt stokes the fire, making it larger to combat the shivers he can feel shaking Jaskier’s shoulders. “No use trying to fight it.”

Jaskier lets out a huff. “A reputation may not be worth a lot to you, Geralt, but it can be a very powerful tool if you – ”

“Nothing,” Geralt turns to face him, voice low and soft, pulled from somewhere deep within him, “is worth you getting hurt.”

Jaskier stares at him, amber light flickering over his face and catching in his ocean eyes, and Geralt is overcome with the strangest, strongest desire to drown in them.

He swallows the want down, turning back to the fire, and after a moment Jaskier lets out another huff – softer than his last – and rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Careful, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, “you keep this up and I might start to believe that deep, deep, down in the depths of that cavern housing your cold stone heart – you actually do care.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier shivers again, and Geralt reaches for his pack, digging around for a moment before throwing a wad of fabric at the bard.

“Here.” Jaskier unfolds it, staring at the rough, weather beaten fabric of the shirt. “It’s not silk and silver, but it’ll keep the cold at bay.”

Jaskier looks at him, something like wonder in his eyes. “Thanks, Geralt.”

Geralt grunts, and pretends to focus on the fire once more, though he keeps an eyes on Jaskier out of his periphery – watching as he carefully pulls the shirt over his head so as not to aggravate his injury. The shirt practically drowns him once he gets it on, clearly displaying the difference between their builds, but it stops the shivers. And when Jaskier leans his head on Geralt’s shoulder once more, their combined scents stir the embers of an entirely different sort of fire in Geralt’s gut.

As Jaskier’s eyes gradually drift closed, their campfire burning low, Geralt makes a promise.

The next time someone tries to harm him, Geralt will run his blade through their heart before Jaskier’s can be moved to mercy.

* * *

This time when he arrives at the manor, Geralt doesn’t bother to knock.

He twists the door handle until the lock breaks, opening the door slowly, stepping through quietly. Jaskier’s scent greets him almost immediately, and he follows it up the immaculate main staircase, down grand hallways adorned with paintings of long dead faces, until he reaches the source – one of the bedroom doors.

The door opens easily, with no need for him to break the lock, and he steps inside.

“Not another step.”

Jaskier is there, vacant, dazed expression on his face, but so is Zmora, holding a blade to his throat – and the sight of it stops Geralt’s heart. “Jaskier.”

“How would you rather have him, Witcher?” Zmora presses the blade closer, “Dead, with you, or alive, with me?”

Geralt growls, low in his chest, stepping forward. “Let him go.”

“I saved him,” Zmora takes a step back in response, pulling Jaskier with him. “I took his pain, his sorrow – sorrow that _you_ caused. Even now, I take care of him – relieve him of his hunger, his thirst – he wants for nothing with me.”

“You take the desire for it.” Geralt takes another step forward. “Not the need itself.”

“Mere equivocation.” Zmora’s back hits the wall with his next step.

Geralt snarls, “You’re starving him – ”

“That’s close enough!”

Geralt stops mid step, eyes caught by the bead of red gathering on the tip of Zmora’s blade.

“This ends one of two ways,” Zmora’s grip on Jaskier is white knuckled, “Either you leave us in peace, or I send Jaskier to his. Now, which will it be?”

Geralt holds himself carefully still, his left fist clenched around a handful of powder. “Neither.”

He throws his hand forward, magic flying from it along with the powder, covering Jaskier in a fine blue mist and knocking Zmora off balance – granting Geralt the chance to leap forward and tear the creature away from Jaskier. And before it can take another wretched breath, Geralt’s sword is through its chest; his silver splitting its rotten heart in two.

A cloudy white consumes the creature’s eyes, and when Geralt draws his sword out with a viscous tug the body hits the ground with no greater ceremony – as dead as any other monster that has crossed paths with Geralt’s blade.

He turns from the corpse, kneeling down to where Jaskier is slumped against the wall. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes are closed, almost sunken into his pale face, and he doesn’t so much as twitch when Geralt grabs him, hands grasping tightly; his skin cold beneath Geralt’s fingertips.

“Jaskier.” Geralt shakes him, and then again, harder this time, and it feels as though something is clawing up him from the inside. “Jaskier!” His hands shake as they move to cup Jaskier’s face, and even this close, Geralt can’t seem to hear Jaskier’s breath over the pounding of his own heart. He forces his eyes to close, pressing their foreheads together as he tries to force his heartbeat to slow and quiet; straining his ears to try and hear the movement of air in and out of Jaskier’s lungs.

“Come back,” it’s as though his very heart is on his tongue, carved out of his chest and bleeding from his lips. “Come back to me.”

The silence threatens to suffocate Geralt, and he holds Jaskier close, keeping them connected. And he would tear apart anything and everything just to hear Jaskier speak once more.

“Geralt?”

He draws back, and the sight of blue eyes – blinking blearily, but open and awake and _alive_ – would be enough to send him to his knees were he not there already.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt rushes forward, gathering Jaskier up in his arms, clutching him so tightly it would take a force more powerful than Destiny itself to tear them apart again.

After a moment, Jaskier’s arms wrap around him too, hands clutching at the back of his leather armour.

“At the risk of ruining a potentially poignant moment,” Jaskier murmurs, and though there’s a hint of humour in his words it is far out shadowed by exhaustion that practically bleeds from him, “am I... _alive_... right now? Or are you some sort of... psychopomp sent to drag me to whatever afterlife the gods have deemed me worthy of?”

Geralt tucks his arm under Jaskier’s knees, drawing him up so that he’s cradling his – far, far too light – body in his arms. “The only place I’m dragging you is back to the inn.”

“There are worse afterlives I suppose,” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s chest, eyes already drooping closed again. “I think I could contend with weak ale and rowdy ruffians for all eternity – so long as you were there with me.”

Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier, on the verge of begging his heart to return to his chest – to not secure itself more immovably into Jaskier’s hands.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier’s words slur into one another as Geralt continues to walk, pausing briefly to grab Jaskier’s lute before leaving the bedroom. “I know you don’t – want that – want me...”

It hurts to swallow around the lump of emotion in Geralt’s throat. “Jaskier – ”

“Just... ” Jaskier’s fingers hook into the front of Geralt’s armour, gently, and it would take less than the briefest breeze to knock them away. “Stay, will you? Please.”

By the time Geralt can even begin to conjure up an answer, Jaskier’s breaths have evened out, sleep claiming him.

So instead, he puts all the words he can’t say into a kiss and presses them gently against Jaskier’s forehead. 

* * *

Geralt comes back from his sweep around the campsite to find Jaskier gone.

Borch is still there, sitting in the same spot he had been when Geralt left, staring idly into the fire. He doesn’t look up when Geralt comes to a stop beside him, trying to hear the faintest whisper of Jaskier’s incessant chatter.

“Looking for your companion?” Borch’s eyes sparkle with something not unlike the mischievous glint that Geralt has seen so many times in Jaskier’s. “He wandered off that way a few minutes ago; probably hasn't gotten too far yet.”

“Hmm.” Geralt keeps his face neutral, but he starts to walk in the direction that Borch indicates; a useless, restless sort of agitation festering in his chest at the thought of Jaskier stumbling across something far more dangerous than a starving Hirrika.

“It’s never a good idea,” Borch waits until Geralt pauses and turns to face him before continuing, “to lose sight of what’s important to you.”

Geralt grunts in reply, already sick to death of this man and his cryptic comments, doing his best to ignore the way they make that feeling in his chest increase tenfold – stopping just short of running in the direction of Jaskier.

He picks up his scent quickly enough, wading through underbrush until he can hear the sound of Jaskier talking, quietly, soothingly, like he does when he’s addressing Roach.

“That’s it – yummy isn’t it? Here, have some more – ah, Geralt.” Jaskier glances up at him, a slightly guilty look to his face, hand still outstretched with a sugar cube laying openly on his palm; and an infant Hirrika takes it and shoves it in its mouth before ducking to hide behind Jaskier’s leg. “Finished your little – _patrol_ – so soon? I thought you’d take at least an hour or so to pause and brood with every second step – ”

“Jaskier.” Geralt takes a step forward, moving closer, and the Hirrika tries to bury itself further out of sight. “What’s going on?”

“Ah, yes, well,” Jaskier digs around in his jacket before pulling out another sugar cube, “while you were gone, I spotted the poor thing lurking around the edge of camp. I figured it might be best for all involved if I, sort of, lured it away and gave it some food. Besides, you’re always telling me not to give Roach so many sugar cubes and this is as good a use for them as any, so...”

Jaskier trails off, running a cautious, yet gentle, hand over the back of the Hirrika’s head. It lets out a soft croon in reply, raising its head slightly, its eyes keeping a careful watch on Geralt. Geralt is careful not to make eye contact, slowly lowering himself down until he’s sitting next to Jaskier, their shoulders brushing gently. Jaskier keeps his eyes on the creature, even as his hand fishes around in his jacket for yet another sugar cube.

“It’s a baby, isn’t it?” Jaskier offers the sugar cube to the Hirrika, who takes it and scoffs it down eagerly. “Or a young child, at least.”

“The latter.”

Jaskier’s throat works as though he can’t quite get the words out at first. “So, the one from before – its parent?”

Geralt doesn’t reply immediately, mind and mouth caught by the memory of the knight hacking apart the defenceless creature – as though it were some devil from the farthest depths of hell and not simply starving. 

Jaskier seems to take his silence as confirmation, and as the Hirrika snuggles up to him again, looking for more treats, the sharp scent of salt hits Geralt’s nose. “Stupid prick,” Jaskier pulls out another sugar cube, “Maybe if we’re lucky he’ll do us all a favour and shit himself to death.”

“Hmm.” Something about the smell of salt – of Jaskier’s tears – is making that baseline irritation Geralt feels towards the shining knight flare into something sharper – like embers stoked into a blazing bonfire.

“You think he kills everything like that?” Jaskier asks, still keeping his face turned away, “All... grand performance and self-righteous stokes of his sword? Seems like he might be trying to overcompensate for something, if you get my meaning – ”

“It’s not your fault.”

Jaskier snorts. “Except for the part where I lured a starving creature to its demise, and orphaned its child, right?” 

“You ran from a threat,” Geralt’s fingers itch to reach out and turn Jaskier’s face so that the two of them are eye to eye, “you didn’t call for its death, just for me. And when it turned out not to be a threat, a shit-for-brains killed it to prove a point.”

Geralt reaches forward, clumsily – after all, his hands have been tailored for dispensing death and destruction, not offering comfort – taking Jaskier’s hand in his own. “It’s not your fault.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t shake off Geralt’s hand either.

After a moment he uses his other hand to wipe at his face quickly, before turning to face Geralt, wry smile already in place. “Suppose we can’t bring it with us, can we?”

And Geralt wants nothing more in that moment than to pull Jaskier into his arms and never let go, to hide him from everything cruel this world can throw at them – to wipe the tears from his face and kiss the lingering self-doubt from his lips –

The intensity of it has him dropping Jaskier’s hand as though it’s molten steel, pushing himself to his feet – desperate to get some distance between them – to get away from the feelings that threaten to drown him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier is frowning up at him, and the Hirrika blinks at him with eyes that seem to know far too much.

“We should head back to camp.” Geralt adjusts his blade, looking everywhere but the two of them. “Leave it something to keep it busy.”

Back at camp is Yennefer – a connection that Geralt can understand, a depth of feelings that he can explain – the djinn’s magic pulling them ever closer together for eternity. Here, with Jaskier, it feels like he’s on the edge of something he can’t step back from – just a light breeze away from tumbling into something unknown and cavernous.

“Right,” Jaskier places several cubes of sugar on the ground next to the Hirrika, before pulling himself to his feet. “Probably not a good idea to go dragon hunting without a good night’s sleep.”

Geralt grunts, letting Jaskier walk in front of him as the make their way back to camp – scanning for any potential threats.

But even back at the camp, watching Jaskier’s chest rise and fall in steady breaths, the feeling persists. And he falls asleep thinking about what he would be like to pull Jaskier close and swallow down one of his laughs with the gentlest press of his lips.

* * *

  
It feels like Yennefer spends years examining Jaskier.

She runs her hand over his body as he rests on the bed, magic pouring forth from her fingers, before drawing back abruptly.

“Is he – ?”

“He’ll be fine.” Yennefer rearranges the folds of her cloak, putting her hood back up as well. “So long as he rests and eats well, he should be back to gracing the public with his tawdry ballads in no time.”

Some of the tension seeps from Geralt’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“I’ll watch over Ciri,” She makes her way towards the door, gracing him with a smirk when her hand is resting on the handle, “give you boys a chance to talk.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s lips twitch slightly.

Yennefer moves to open the door, but pauses, turning back to face him. “Second chances are rarer than any dragon, Geralt. And third ones are practically non-existent.”

“Do you have a point?” Geralt growls, but there’s no real heat behind it, dampened by the twisting in his gut.

Yennefer’s eyes burn into the side of his face. “Don’t fuck it up.”

She slips through the door a moment later, closing it with a soft click and leaving Geralt and Jaskier alone together for the first time since they arrived back at the inn.

Geralt steps forward slowly, steadily, as though with every next step he might somehow conjure the incubus back to life, sitting down gingerly on the bed when he reaches it.

Jaskier doesn’t so much as stir as the bed shifts with Geralt’s weight, and it makes Geralt’s heart feel as though it’s in his throat. He reaches a hand forward, tucking a stray hair behind Jaskier’s ear, a relief that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to express seeping through his entire being when his fingers brush Jaskier’s skin and feels his usual heat bleeding from it instead of that corpse chill from before. His fingers linger there, and he starts slightly when Jaskier presses his face into the touch, mumbling gentle nonsense before his eyes begin to blink open. Geralt watches the confusion grow as he takes in his surroundings, his eyes eventually meeting Geralt’s.

“Geralt.” Jaskier says his name as though his mouth is full of cotton, understanding gradually filtering into his eyes; and when it finally hits, he practically flies up, only to curl inward on himself with a sharp wince.

“Lie still.” Geralt reaches forward to help Jaskier lie down again – 

But Jaskier shifts away from his touch, and the look in his eyes, guarded, suspicious, tears at Geralt’s heart, and he lets his hand fall back to his side, slowly, as the two of them regard each other 

Jaskier is the first to look away, clearing his throat. “Um, I suppose I should, uh, thank you, for your assistance with that whole – ”

“Incubus,” Geralt supplies.

“Right, yes, incubus, that whole thing – much appreciated, but don’t worry, I’ll be sure to be out of here just as soon as it feels like I’m made of more than bones.” Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, still looking everywhere but Geralt.

“Jaskier – ”

“Really, I do apologize for the whole, needing saving thing, I’ll be sure to pay you for your time – what’s your going rate at the moment? And do tell me that there’s some kind of barker discount – ”

“About what I said,” Geralt manages to push through, knowing Jaskier won’t let him talk otherwise, “on the mountain – ”

‘Yes, I remember, Geralt, after all,” Jaskier seems to be gathering himself for another attempt to leave the bed, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, “I was there – getting shouted at for ruining your entire life thus far – ”

“It was wrong.”

Jaskier stops talking, turning to look at him again. “What?”

“I was angry, and I took it out on the person that least deserved it; it was wrong.” Geralt swallows, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with Jaskier. “I was wrong.”

Jaskier simply stares at him in silence for a while, then huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Are you sure you aren’t the one under some incubus’ spell?”

“Reasonably.” Geralt’s lips twitch, and Jaskier lets out a much more sincere laugh.

“Never thought I’d see the day where Geralt of Rivia apologized to someone, let alone me.” Jaskier smiles, and the softness of it makes Geralt ache to cross the distance between them and press his lips to it.

“Hmm.” Geralt drops his gaze to the bed, where their hands are resting just inches from one another. “Can you forgive me?”

“What, for apologizing and utterly invalidating all these months of calling you a heartless bastard in my head, as well as _at_ anyone who would listen?” Jaskier teases, smile turning into a smirk. “ _Perhaps_ , I might bestow my divine forgiveness upon you if you got on your knees and grovelled for it.”

Geralt slides off the bed, shifting so that he’s on his knees in front of Jaskier, and watches that teasing smirk turn into a kind of quiet awe.

“Geralt – ”

“I was angry, because when Yen left,” Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes, “it hurt – but the pain was nothing close to all the times I’ve watched you walk into danger, all the moments I thought I might never see you again. And I was angry, and scared, because if my feelings for you were more powerful than a djin’s chaos then – ” Geralt swallows “- I am constantly in danger. And if I were to lose you to it – ” He closes his eyes “- But this past year without you – wondering where you are, how you’re faring, who you’re with – it just made me ache for you all the more.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice is shaking, and he sounds torn between crying and screaming, “if this is some grand jest then you should know it’s in very poor taste – ”

“I love you.” Geralt raises his eyes to Jaskier’s again. “I know I don’t deserve to, but I do. And you have every right to throw me from your life – or off a damn mountain for that matter. But I beg you,” Geralt bows his head, “forgive me instead.”

The noises of the tavern drift up from beneath them – muted bouts of raucous laughter and calls for more ale – but in this room, the only sounds are the beating of their hearts and the soft inhale and exhale of their lungs.

And then, the bed creaks as Jaskier slides off it so he’s kneeling on the floor as well, a gentle hand reaching forward and tipping Geralt’s face back up. And when their eyes meet, Jaskier’s are filled with salty tears, and Geralt’s eyes are far from dry as well. But through the tears, Jaskier is smiling – an unbearably fond smile – and his hands cup Geralt’s face ever so gently.

“You really are a fool,” Jaskier murmurs, stoking Geralt’s cheeks softly, “Geralt of Rivia.”

And then he pushes forward and brings their lips together, and a taste that’s pure Jaskier breaks over Geralt’s tongue, and Geralt waits only a second before rushing forward to return it.

Even when they break apart for air, they don’t move far, pressing their foreheads together and breathing one another in.

“Forgive me.” Geralt whispers, and it's as much a beg now as it was when he was the only one on his knees.

Jaskier reaches forward with one of his hands and intertwines their fingers. “You’re forgiven, you thick headed fool. Don’t get me wrong, there’s definitely a part of me that’s still angry about it, but I’ll work on it.”

“Hmm.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s lips again in return for the insult, deserved or no, and Jaskier presses back just as hungrily – the two of them like thirsty desert wanderers, finding their oasis in one another.

“In case it somehow escaped your notice,” Jaskier says when they next break for air, and Geralt would wonder how he manages to speak so quickly after they move apart if he weren’t so caught on the breathless quality of his well-kissed voice, “I love you too.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sweeps Jaskier up in his arms, heart fluttering at the bard’s laugh of delight, before depositing him on the bed and lying down beside him.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, Sir Witcher,” Jaskier grins, “but I don’t put out so easily.”

Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You need rest – and food – but rest first.”

“Who knew you were a man of such chivalry?” Jaskier snuggles up next to him, wrapping his arms around Geralt – and though they can’t quite wrap around all of Geralt’s bulk, the warmth that blooms through his chest is a welcome trade off. “I feel safer already in your big strong arms.”

“Feels as though I should be the one saying that,” Geralt mutters, his eyes already beginning to drift closed.

Jaskier hums. “Don’t you worry my dear, your handy dandy bard will keep safe.”

“Dandy, certainly,” Geralt returns, “handy, not so much.”

“I think I preferred when you were on your knees.”

“Go the fuck to sleep and maybe that happens again someday.”

Jaskier huffs out a laugh, his breath landing in a warm puff against the back of Geralt’s neck. “A sacrifice I’m more than willing to make. Goodnight, _my heart_.”

“Hmm.”

Gradually, Jaskier’s breaths even out, sleep pulling the bard back in before Geralt. And as the witcher’s eyes finally close and sleep draws him in, he revels in the feeling of being held safe in Jaskier’s arms; murmuring with a tenderness he hopes to use forever, “Sleep well, my heart.”


End file.
